


Idée Fixe

by Torts_Illustrated



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Cloud Strife Needs a Hug, Depression, Dissociation, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Falling In Love, Gentle Kissing, Hair Washing, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jenova Project (Compilation of FFVII), Jenova is her own warning, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Past Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough, Protective Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), Psychosis, Romance, Sane Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator, Zack Fair & Cloud Strife Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torts_Illustrated/pseuds/Torts_Illustrated
Summary: Project S was a failure, and its rejected specimen wanders the Planet seeking answers and taking very poor care of himself. After Specimen C escapes from his own nightmare, Tifa puts him to work so she can keep a close watch over him and his fragile mental state. When a mysterious, cloaked man shows up in the alley behind the bar, Cloud decides to help this — admittedly very handsome! — stranger and prove to Tifa that he's more capable than anyone thinks. Together, Cloud and Sephiroth begin to learn what it feels like to be truly seen, and they must reconcile their self-hatred and trauma with their blooming readiness to love and be loved for who they are.
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough/Tifa Lockhart, Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Comments: 107
Kudos: 195





	1. Alleycat

**Author's Note:**

> No beta. All mistakes are my own, all relevant intellectual property belongs to Square Enix. 
> 
> This is my first time publicly sharing any fic for this fandom, and I'm not quite sure where the story will go. Expect major changes to canon, a slow burn romance, happy ending for Sephiroth and Cloud, with dark pasts and a healthy way forward for two broken warriors. If there is anything in particular you'd like to see (within the bounds of the fic, so no evil!Sephiroth or either of them dying), please let me know. I have no specific number of chapters in mind but I do have an ending planned. :) Jenova’s influence is still a part of the story, but Cloud and Sephiroth’s suffering is about their own trauma and mental state, not anything they inflict on each other. The world is so scary right now and I want to give the two characters (and you, my potential readers!) something that will eventually be joyful and soft.
> 
> I am also a full-time student and I work part-time so updates may be intermittent. I apologize in advance and thank you for your patience.
> 
> As a heads up for those who may be looking for particular dynamics, this fic will NOT contain: noncon/dubcon of ANY kind, evil/murderous Sephiroth, major character death, ABO or mpreg, epic world-spanning quests to take down Shinra, or anything more than temporary, fixable angst. There are really great fics out there with those themes, but this will not be one of them.
> 
> Thank you to @exquisitecorpses for listening to me rant about Cloud and Sephiroth being soulmates. I love you.

My stars shine darkly over

me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps

distemper yours; therefore shall I crave of you your

leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad

recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.

— William Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_

* * *

Wiping down the glasses before Seventh Heaven opens for the evening, Cloud is nearly in a state of panic.

 _I have to write to my mom. She really must be worried. Isn’t the snow coming soon? I promised Tifa I would check on Marlene upstairs. Homework. I don’t even know what topic. Please let it not be math. Mom would be so disappointed. “Cloud, you have to remember the order — look at the parentheses, baby.” And Tifa won’t say anything but it’s got to be_ neat _I just can’t let her down. Not after this_.

He takes a deep, ragged breath as he sets the glass down. _Full-ass SOLDIER enhancements and you can’t keep a glass clean? Get it together, Strife._ If he squeezes it any harder, it might shatter in his hand. It might feel—

_Good._

The radio is a low buzz in his ears, and Cloud swears he sees a mouse — _please not a rat_ — dart through his peripheral vision. But he’s got to admit it: Tifa’s done a great job. The mako smell is just an afterthought, and as he strips the rubber kitchen gloves and pours himself a cup of water, he savors the feeling of cleanliness.

The acrid lemon-sharp countertop cleaner, the silver polish, the damp soap smell from when he’d scrubbed the baseboards. It’s clean. At least he can manage this for Tifa, after all she’s done. The crew won’t trust him on a mission after he nearly passed out the first time, but they trust him with the type of chores his mother had given him before—

 _Before_ —

He gulps at the water and collapses onto a bar stool, feeling the curves of his lip pull up as he imagines Tifa serving him a drink.

 _“Something hard.”_ He thinks about what he’d say. He sounds like a fucking teenager. Like he’s trying to be something he’s not, never can be. Because he doesn’t know how to be Cloud, just Cloud, whether a boy or a man. Should’ve just said nothing at all. That would’ve been _much_ cooler. You know who would have been cool? Se—

He groans and clutches his head in his hands. Squeezing something out, like pressing the skin of a tangerine until it puckers and pops. _You’ll never be real_.

 _What’s the point?_ _She knows I can’t even pay. Cloud you are a lowlife you are such a BURDEN they didn’t even take you! Like a little kid. What the fuck are you even good for?_

He steadies his breathing like Jessie showed him, folds his forearms over the bar and rests his chin there, staring at the gathering dust on the ceiling. The soft tinkle of the jukebox begins to wind down, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up and do anything about it.

They’re all out there—Barret, Wedge, Jessie, Biggs, _Tifa_ —and he’s here playing housekeeper. Playing little rat-tailed boy in time out. At least there aren’t any customers around when they leave him here like this, so he can practice darts with his pitiful, shaking hands, can stare up at the ceiling as long as he wants without someone asking if he’s okay. He hates that he knows the answer to that question. _I’m doing... really bad. I’m..._.

What was it Tifa had said when she’d found him? The sweetness, the tinge of love, it all seeped through. He clung to it like he was drowning, but with her gone to the reactor with the rest of AVALANCHE, he slipped under. Drowning.

“ _Oh Gaia, Cloud, look at you. I’m just so happy to see you. After everything. After… Nibelheim. Look at your uniform. Look at you. My hero!”_

He’d laughed, then, digging his fingernails into half-moons in his palms. The ringing in his ears nearly pierced him through, stabbing into his eyeballs and filling his mouth with ash. He could feel little crescent marks dripping blood in his hands. But she didn’t need to know about all that.

“ _I’m glad to see you too, Tifa._ ”

“ _We’ll be back tonight. Just make yourself comfortable. Marle will keep an eye out for you if anything comes up.”_

Now, he swings his legs under the bar because he’d seen someone do it once in a movie, and it feels good. Easy. Real. They didn’t have a television at home in Nibelheim, but in the summer, if the children were good and the weather was right, the mayor would arrange to have a projector screen set up in the center of the village, with a sheet draped in front of the old well. He couldn’t remember anything they’d watched. What had they eaten? What did the stars look like without a plate to hide them?

 _I’m going to see my mother_.

On movie night, did the mako smell sweep down on the village as it did when the wind moved just right? Was it wind, anyway? Or was it the ghost of Nibelheim, the silver wraith who cried and cried for children to come up Mt. Nibel? The scariest of bedtime stories. On those crisp summer nights in front of the old, fried projector, had Cloud thought about reaching his hand out to Tifa, had he even tried, had he done anything more than shudder at the rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck and plan how to not get beaten up the next day?

He’d done nothing but pick at the dirt-black scabs on his bony knees and give into the pit of dread in his stomach. They’d beat him for whatever reason they could find. For no reason at all.

When his heartbeat calms down here — _now, you’re here, Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven, lucky seven, feel your feet flat on the floor, growing roots, tall like a tree, you’re alright, your ribs are healed you’re good to go come on Cloud come on —_ he picks up a broom and starts to sweep. Tifa usually keeps it so neat that he can just go through the motions. The rhythmic _swish_ of the broom merges with the tinny radio in the back office and he can lose himself in it. The voices let him sweep and his mind clears for a moment. Maybe they’ll be back soon. Before the evening shift, at least. _I can do that_.

_Good boy, Cloud._

What the hell was that? Sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself on purpose or if it’s all slipped through his fingers. The cracks in his mind might be letting something in. Maybe filling in the gaps. And if that’s true, of course AVALANCHE can’t rely on him on such an important mission. What kind of mercenary can do his job if he’s constantly teetering on the edge of some psychotic break, or . . .

_Worse._

It’s easier than to pretend to be himself than to be anything real.

_Give me the black materia. Cloud._

A faint murmur. Was someone talking? He scans the room and leaned on the broom, straining to listen.

 _Cloud_.

He swallows once, breaths in and out through his nose, cracks his fingers one by one, and he picks up the pace, restarts the jukebox when he finds the song they play during the Gold Saucer races, and reruns Teioh’s last record in his head. This floor is going to be so clean he could eat off it. When he fishes out the citrus-scented polish from under the sink, he decides to spend the rest of his afternoon scrubbing it the floorboards so thoroughly they will sparkle. _Killing it! You got this. Tifa will be so proud._

 _Embrace me_.

“Could you fucking keep it _down_?” Cloud barks. Nothing answers him but the echo of his own tremulous voice. It never does. There are just the soft sounds of the children playing outside and a few of the Sector 7 cats meowing on their usual patrol.

His heart hurtles into his throat and tears prickle his eyes. Sleep deprivation is a hell of a drug, right? He’s just thinking too loud. It’s too _loud_. Everything is too _loud_ in this fucking place. Just a good night sleep back at Stargazer Heights—if that’s even a possibility in that glorified storage container—and he’ll be right as rain. Right?

SOLDIERs First Class are required to pass all of the most rigorous psychological tests and he’s got the sword and the mako-tinged eyes to prove it. It’s been a while, but he knows he made it. Perfectly sane, wonderfully deadly, and just about capable of polishing a bar floor. But even a SOLDIER can be stressed. SOLDIERs are human. _You’re doing great. Just this last corner now. Tifa will be so pleased. Even Barret won’t be able to complain._

By now, he’s worked his way back towards the back office, and the bar is practically glimmering. He’s dripping in sweat when he pauses at the sink to splash cool water on his face and wring out the rags.

 _Cloud_.

He snaps to attention. Outside? The alley maybe? No. He really needs to sleep.

_Help me._

That one was definitely real. Even he can tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not. Maybe a drunk in the alley? It isn’t even 3pm, but Tifa and Barret had warned him about some of the people who would come to seek shelter in the alley. Fallen from their lovely lives on the plate, or grunts who had lost their livelihoods in reactor accidents and now damned to scavenge in the slums. Tifa’s policy: a warm meal, a warm blanket, some kind words, and a referral to a shelter.

That was the deal, he supposed.

 _Help me… Cloud_.

A stabbing, searing pain shoots its way behind his eyes, and Cloud crumples to the floor. Under his standard-issue SOLDIER shirt, he can feel rivulets of sweat coursing down his thin body, slithering hot and sticky. His scalp burns, even the tips of his eyelashes feel like they’re on fire, and all he can hear is a piercing, metallic shriek.

 _“It’s just tinnitus!”_ Jessie had suggested once, resting her hand on his shoulder. “ _It’s super common, so don’t worry about it. Maybe that last blast is still bothering you? Sorry, Cloud!”_

“Tinnitus my ass,” he moans as he curls into a ball on the floor, pressing his damp forehead against the cool metal of the dishwasher.

_Cloud, stop, what are you doing?_

The edges of Cloud’s vision flicker black, but he claws himself to a sitting position, leaning his body against the cabinets. Fighting back a few dry heaves, he hauls himself up.

_Let’s go see our mother._

He shakes his head, swallows the green bile shoving its way up his throat. He can do this. He _can._ There’s someone out there and Tifa will be disappointed if he just leaves some drunk guy to choke in his own vomit. If Shinra won’t do anything for the people down here, at least ex-SOLDIER First Class Cloud Strife can try.

He gulps down some water straight from the faucet and splashes his face again. His nose and cheeks flush and tingle with the sudden coldness of it, but he doesn’t mind. It feels good to feel something that isn’t the numbness of his feet, the tingling of his hands, the ice-pick flashes of heat behind his eyes.

 _I’ve thought of a wonderful present_ …

After a few more shaky breaths, he turns on his heel and goes out the back door from the office. Night has nearly fallen, though it’s always half-dark under the plate, and he has trouble making out anything in the alley but some trash bags, broken-down boxes, and a ginger cat. He pads softly after the cat and pulls out his PHS to use as a flashlight.

The noise and splitting pain in his head dull a little, but he is hesitant as he walks forward. Fumbling, he finally turns on the light.

“Hello?”

 _Mother_.

He grits his teeth. “Is there anyone there? You okay?”

A few cans and bottles rattle, but it’s just the cat. Its eyes gleam yellow in the light of the PHS, and it slinks into the shadows. But cats don’t talk. So who the hell was that? There’s got to be someone out here, this isn’t one of those crazy things, this isn’t what Marle and Tifa had mentioned in hushed voices— _severe trauma, dissociative personality, reality, coping, poor Cloud, he just needs some time to put himself back together, I know him, really—_ no. Not “poor Cloud.” Just Cloud doing his damn job.

He squares his shoulders and walks deeper into the alley when suddenly the toe of his boot collides with something and he’s sprawled flat in the mud (and condom wrappers, broken glass, mako-laced sewer runoff, sticky wet newspaper).

Cloud sits up and scrabbles around in the damp earth for his PHS. “Sorry, I—”

“Please help me.”

It’s the voice. That same voice. _Mother_. _Cloud_.

Cloud spins, pulling himself onto his knees, and crawls over to the sound of the voice. A man in a black cloak, huddled against some crates, reaches a pallid, bony hand out of his shroud. “Please, I’m sorry, I—”

His voice drops off and his hand falls limply to his lap.

When Cloud crawls over, he gently places a hand over the man’s emaciated one. “What’s your name? Can we take you somewhere warm?”

The man groans as he lifts his head, and his eyes meet Cloud’s. The shroud falls around his face, and dirty, knotted silver-grey hair spills out from under the hood.

“You have feelings now?” the man breathes, his voice nearly a whisper. Cloud realizes this man’s eyes are not just mako-tinged like any ordinary SOLDIER, but mako- _soaked_ ; born from mako, glimmering cat-like green even in under the dingy alley lamps.

Cloud’s heart races in his ears. He doesn’t know how to help people, but this guy is barely holding on. He can’t just leave him. “I’m going to help you, okay?” Cloud reaches out to touch the man’s shoulders. “Let’s get you some dinner.”

The man in the black cape says nothing, only leans into Cloud’s touch, as if he’d never been held before in his life. “You came for me.”

“Couldn’t just leave you out here, could I?” Cloud chuckles. This might be harder than it looks: the man is at least half a head taller than Cloud, and although the hollows of his cheeks cast disturbing shadows, he has the body of someone who might have been a fighter, a worker in a previous life.

“Well,” breathes the man as he draws his cloak closer around himself. “Most people would.”

“Nah,” Cloud says. “You’re coming with me. But I’m going to need your help.” He tucks his PHS in his pants pocket and scoots closer. “I’m going to have to touch you.”

“O…kay.”

With some groaning and adjusting, Cloud manages to pull the man’s arms around his shoulders and he acts as a crutch. With one arm around the man’s disturbingly pinched waist and the other hand guiding his dangling arm, he supports the man’s weight and steers him towards the back entrance of Seventh Heaven.

Barret won’t be happy. This guy _reeks_. Like he hasn’t had a bath in months, like he’s never met a bar of soap in his life. But he’s still a man. A real person, one of the unavoidable consequences of the rise of Midgar. The above and the below.

Suddenly they stumble in the mud; Cloud’s ankle gets stuck. He wiggles it out, accidentally rubbing his side against the disturbingly stark row of ribs in the man’s torso.

“Tifa’s going to feed you until you’re bigger than Barrett,” he grumbles as he wrenches his foot out. “But the shower _has_ to come first.”

“Shower.”

“Yep, you stink.”

The man says nothing in reply.

When they enter the back door, Cloud gently sets the man in the back-office desk chair before sticking his head out of the door and into the bar. “Anyone home?” He casts a worriedglance at the crumpled-up man in the chair before looking out into the bar again.

As if on cue, Tifa and Biggs burst in the front door. Cloud comes out to greet them, gently closing the office door behind him.

“Cloud!” Tifa beams and runs forward, nearly gasping as she sees the squeaky-clean floors and the spotless bar. “You really did it.”

Biggs chuckles. “Did you get all the shelves? And the _back_ of the shelves too?”

“Oh, did you?” Tifa teases. She leans towards Cloud and claps her shoulder around him in a half hug. “Either way, you did a great job. We appreciate it.”

Cloud can barely open his mouth to speak before Biggs launches into a play-by-play description of exactly what happened at the Sector 1 reactor. On any other day, he’d welcome the escape from his fruitless recreation of his memory, but today, things are a little—

“What’s in the back room?” Tifa asks, cocking her head in that direction.

 _Help me, please, Cloud_.

Cloud flies into action and has his hand on the doorknob before Tifa can so much as raise an eyebrow. “It’s… I found him outside.”

“One of the mako victims?”

“I don’t know,” Cloud confesses. “I just… couldn’t leave him out there.”

Tifa rubs Cloud’s arm and smiles gently. Soft jasmine perfume, a bit of respite in this Gaiaforsaken place. The tips of her fingers are warm on the gooseflesh of Cloud’s upper arm. “You did the right thing. I think there’s a spare room at the Stargazer—”

“Tifa,” Cloud stammers. “I—I—well, he’s in… bad shape. He—”

“Let me see what materia we’ve got!” she chirps.

“No, I mean, let’s… there’s a spare room upstairs. Maybe we can just… for, you know…”

_Cloud, my good boy._

“You want to keep him upstairs for the night? You sure?”

Cloud looks at his boots. Scuffed. Had he ever had a fresh pair of shoes? SOLDIER must’ve given him something, right? It’s been a while. “Yeah, I mean… to keep an eye on him. I think he just needs to rest tonight. Even Stargazer might be too far until we can figure out what’s wrong with him.”

Tifa cracks open the office door to see this new guest, who had since sunken into the chair and was shaking ever so slightly. From under the fraying shroud, pale fingers with overgrown, dirt-caked fingernails grip the arms of the chair, and the shadow’s rattling breath comes in an uneven stream. His fingernails are tinged with sickening green, and Tifa can barely make out a face under the shadow of the hood. “Mako poisoning?”

“Maybe. Something like that.”

“Cloud, I’m proud of you.”

 _Good puppet_.

Cloud shakes his head and digs his fingernails into his palms. “I’m not good, I’m just… I—”

“You’re doing a good thing. I’m… really proud of you.”

She beams, gently rubbing his upper arm before moving back to the kitchen to pull out some pots and pans. “Take him upstairs and I’ll get some dinner ready. Maybe something light for your new friend.”

“Yeah.” Cloud casts a glance back through the cracked office door. The man looks right at him and his heavy-lidded eyes glow like a cat’s, even in the dim light. It isn’t a smile, but the tips of his thin, chapped lips pull up in a way that suggest an attempt at what might generously be called smile. (Cloud is generous). With the strong, pointed chin, smooth cheekbones and fine nose, and the deep sunken shadows under those glazed-over emerald eyes, he is the spitting image of weariness. Elegance. Sadness. But Cloud has long forgotten how to smile too, and he cherishes this effort for what it is. Lovely.

He steps back into the office and closes the door gently behind him. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

“Mm,” the man murmurs. Man? Or shadow? Or—

Cloud shakes his head. Whatever thoughts were coming, he finally has something to do. That’s what the therapist to whom Tifa had sent him had said: make lists. Have tasks. Keep your days full. Do your breathing. Don’t forget to exercise. Eat something green at every meal. Don’t overdo it with the booze. Tell Tifa where you’re going. No sharp objects. Don’t let—

_Black Materia, mother…_

The void find you.

“Dinner, shower, bed. We’ll find you some pajamas. You’ll feel good as new if Tifa has anything to say about it.

“Mm. Thank…” The rasping voice trails off, as if anything more than two words was more than he could bear.

“She did the same for me, after all,” Cloud continues as he helps the man stand from the chair. They stumbled for a moment before Cloud could get the man’s arm around his shoulder, adjust his center of gravity, and lead him into the narrow hallway to the stairs. “Alright, man. No need to thank me. You’ve done this before. If we can manage some stairs, we can take on the world.”

 _Take… the Planet_.

He hears it again, _fuck_. An echo, a genderless thunderclap in his head. Not even his own thoughts, but just… a sound. _The Planet_. He shook his head again and turned to rearrange his new charge’s shoulders.

 _My love_.

“Well, we can take on the entire Planet!” he laughs. _That therapist was full of shit, what the hell is this in my head?_

“The shower at Stargazer has surprisingly good water pressure, you’ll see. Okay, good for Midgar. So… bad. It’s bad. But it works. We’ll get you there tomorrow. And Tifa’s a great cook, a genius, you are lucky it’s not just you and me or you’d be dead of starvation by the end of the week and I’d be right behind you…”

With that, he leads the man upstairs to the spare cot. The man’s heavy frame hangs loosely in Cloud’s arms, and he finds that he sometimes has to reach down and lift a disturbingly bony calf to get it up the next stair, to get one foot up after another. But all the way up, he can’t fight the determined little grin that has started to perk up the corners of his lips. “I’m really proud of you,” Tifa had said. Before today, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought the same of himself.


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth takes a bath. No beta, as usual, but I appreciate the love! Please let me know if you find any errors or if you are enjoying the fic. It means a lot to know that people love soft Sefikura as much as I do.
> 
> Some descriptions in this chapter may be triggering for individuals with body image issues or experience with eating disorders.

By the time they get upstairs, they are both out of breath. “Look at us. We’re a mess,” Cloud laughs.

The man says nothing, but Cloud can feel his sigh in the swell of his ribcage in Cloud’s embrace. 

“I mean, we’re a mess, sure, but we’re going to get that taken care of very soon, alright? Nothing like a hot shower.” Cloud adjusts the drape of the man’s arm around his shoulders and kicks open the bathroom door before delicately setting him to sit on the lid of the toilet.

Only now does he realize he doesn’t have a plan. Giving some stranger — no matter how attractive, or weirdly familiar — a shower is just… weird. Washing a stray dog, sure, but this is a grown man who, but for his malnutrition, can probably wash himself.

“Hey, what’s your name?” _I guess we won’t be strangers if we know each other’s names._

The man looks up, and the shroud falls from around his face. Deep shadows are carved under his eyes, and under the smudged dirt, chapped lips, and under-plate pallor, there is something handsome. Well, not handsome. Beautiful? Cloud isn’t sure if men can be beautiful, but something about this man just pulls at his heart.

The answer comes as a whisper. “They called me Sephiroth.” 

“Haven’t heard that one before. I’m Cloud.” He squats down by the tub — which he has _not_ cleaned as part of his duties at Seventh Heaven, and he is starting to regret that — and slides the fake glass partition to the side before opening the tap and letting it run over his hand.

He can hear the man shifting behind him. “Cloud. Like a stormcloud.”

 _Embrace me_. _Please, come to me._

There are two voices in his head, the real and the fake, and he can’t untangle them, and the rushing sound of the water as it pours into the cracked tub on top of it all nearly overwhelms him. He clutches the side of his head for just a moment, feels his face drooping and his scalp burning, but he works hard to compose himself. If this guy thinks he’s some kind of lunatic, the whole “good deed” idea will fail, and then where will he be? Tifa’s housekeeper and a useless piece of shit. _Good for nothing. Cloud. All you do is ruin things. Failure_.

He bites the inside of his cheek for a moment and tastes the blood, which grounds him, before turning to Sephiroth. “A stormcloud? My mom called me that sometimes. But only if I was being a real ass.”

The man makes this weird, gurgling noise. Something from his throat, or maybe his chest, and despite his dusty face and his sunken eyes, Cloud recognizes it as a laugh. _Guess he’s out of practice_.

“You’re not a stormcloud today, then, are you?” Sephiroth’s voice is warm, but he speaks as if it takes real effort. Like he’s forgotten to be human. His limbs hang limply from his body, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Cloud doesn’t know what to say, but of course he has to fill the quiet. “So…” he trails off. “I can get you some clean clothes for today but they might be a little big. From my friend Barret. And… the water… your bath...” The tips of his ears flush a deep pink.

 _Of course_. The voice again. _Embarrassed. You pathetic fool._

“If you help me into the tub, I think I can manage from there,” Sephiroth says, attempting to pull himself up. “I’m a burden, I apologize, you’re doing too much, Cloud, I—”

“No way! If Tifa sees you leave looking like that she’ll kill me. Sometimes we all need to accept some help, right?”

He’s never done this before, but he helps Sephiroth remove the cloak and the loose pants he’s wearing underneath, then folds them neatly, although he expects they won’t be worn again. Sephiroth hadn’t been wearing any shoes. _Fuck._ Sephiroth helps ever so slightly as Cloud helps him undress, and his fingers are cold and limp when they brush against Cloud’s hands. It isn’t as weird as Cloud had thought, and this intimacy comes easily because Sephiroth accepts it. _You’re doing something good, Cloud_ , he tells himself. _Mom would be so proud of you. You really have to write._

Once the tattered clothes are off, Cloud is relieved to see that Sephiroth’s pallid skin is free of any fresh injuries or open wounds, but his body is littered with old scars. So many he can’t even start to count. For a second his stomach lurches, but he fights it down. _Keep it together. Who knows what’s happened to this guy, he’s just like you_. Sephiroth slumps forward, and his legs buckle like a baby deer as Cloud guides him into the bath, holding his forearm in one hand and guiding his waist in the other. Cloud is still in his sweaty clothes from his day of cleaning, and Sephiroth is fully naked, but Cloud doesn’t feel any shame. Only wishes he could do more. Stop _gawking_ at the marks covering Sephiroth’s body.

“Grab onto the rail inside the tub. I’ll help. Temperature okay? Didn’t want to get it too hot and hurt you or anything.”

“It’s fine,” Sephiroth murmurs, sinking slowly into the warm water and pulling his matted hair to one side so he can splash the water over his chest and back. Cloud finds a bar of soap in the cabinet behind the sink mirror, gives it a quick rinse, and passes it to Sephiroth.

“I’m not sure about shampoo, you’ve got…”

“A lot of hair. I know. The soap is lovely, better than anything I’ve had in... a while. Thank you.”

Cheeks burning, Cloud stands back and slides the glass partition forward a little, to hide the lower part of Sephiroth’s body. _He deserves his dignity_. But Cloud hates the way he stares at the man’s broad, fishbelly-white back. It is almost entirely covered in scars; some are surgical, but some look like—

 _You’ll never stop._ _We have to take it back. For Mother_. 

Wait, was that _Sephiroth’s_ voice? Cloud startles and nearly knocks over the towel rack, but Sephiroth is entirely focused on lathering a bar of soap between his hands and weakly rubbing it down his matchstick arms. No. It’s just one of those things the psychiatrist mentioned. His voices that keep him company. _Don’t lose it. And keep it down today, damn it._

Cigarette burns? Puncture wounds? Needle marks? Bullet wounds? Cloud saw his fair share of injuries on the battlefield when he was a SOLDIER— _I must’ve, right? I don’t remember but I’m sure those guys got injured all the time, right?_ — but he is horrified at the sight of Sephiroth’s scars, some old, some shiny and recent, littered across his back like a constellation. He can see every ridge of Sephiroth’s spine and nearly all of his ribs, and he finds himself looking forward to watching this man eat. It will be a relief. He’ll feel full just from watching. Nobody should look like that, like a starved dog, an abused animal, a—

 _Monster!_

“Shh!” Cloud blurts out, but Sephiroth doesn’t notice as he’s dunked his head under the water. When he resurfaces, he is combing through his knotted hair with shaky, long-nailed fingers. His back is heaving, perhaps from effort, and Cloud feels guilty just standing. _You’re useless. You’re the monster, Cloud._

As Sephiroth’s breaths grow more agitated, Cloud rifles through the cabinet and the drawers under the sink. _Aha!_ He fishes out a sample bottle of conditioner and a plastic comb. Nothing fancy, probably found in someone’s trash, but it will do the trick. “Sephiroth, I—” He gulps. “I have a comb and some conditioner. Maybe it will help. I don’t know a lot about hair, that’s kind of Tifa’s department.”

“I like your hair,” Sephiroth murmurs, his hands dropping limply into the bathwater. He turns his head ever so slightly and sighs. His green eyes have taken on a sad, tired sheen, and Cloud worries about how he’s going to get him _out_ of the bath.

“Can…” Cloud clears his throat. _Be a helper. Don’t be a useless piece of shit, Cloud_. “Can I help? I used to brush my mother’s hair for her sometimes.”

To his surprise, Sephiroth nods, and turns away so his back is facing the side of the tub. Cloud sits on the bathmat behind him and holds the comb and conditioner tightly in his hands. _You got this_.

He drapes a towel over the edge of the tub and over his lap, then gently takes Sephiroth’s hair by the ends so it drapes over the towel. If he were to let it go, it would float on top of the bathwater, like so many silver clouds. The tangles look bad, but Cloud is determined to help. He’s seen children in the slums whose hair was so matted and dirty from living on the streets that the foster parents or the Shinra people just chop it off, leaving them all with the same haphazard look. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he says, before dividing the hair into parts and rubbing the conditioner into the knots. He works slowly, finding a strange pleasure in taking the care to hold the hair past the root, so when he works the comb or his fingers through a knot, he doesn’t pull Sephiroth’s scalp. It looks like Sephiroth hasn’t seen a caring touch in years, and Cloud feels a tear run down his cheek at the thought. _Dumbass. Get it together_. 

Sephiroth is mostly quiet, but he trembles a little when Cloud runs the comb through a whole section, finally untangled, from root to tip. The light from the little window above the shower has faded, but Cloud doesn’t mind how long it takes. The conditioner smells like eucalyptus, maybe a little dulled after its time in the back of the cabinet, and Sephiroth’s hair feels like spun silk in his callused hands. Maybe it’s simple work, but it’s a simple joy to be good at it, to achieve something, and to hear a murmur of appreciation as he gently rakes the comb across Sephiroth’s scalp. 

“Feels nice.” Sephiroth’s voice is shy, but it’s the only one that Cloud hears, and it feels divine to be doing something right. 

“Good,” Cloud responds. “Would’ve hated to have to give you a bowl cut if we couldn’t get it all untangled.”

Sephiroth’s shoulders shake silently, and Cloud takes it as a laugh. 

They’re nearly finished when he hears Tifa’s voice from downstairs. “Did you and your friend fall asleep up there or something? Dinner’s almost ready. Bar looks great, by the way!”

_My friend._

“Friend,” Sephiroth whispers, scraping the dirt from under his fingernails. Now, Cloud has lathered up his hands with the bar of soap and is massaging it into Sephiroth’s scalp; he’d never gotten around to washing it and even just sitting up seems to be an effort for the silver-haired man.

He presses the pads of his fingers into Sephiroth’s scalp, gently at first, but then more firmly, rubbing in small circles and tracing lines across his head. He had never done this for anyone before, and the fine, wet hairs at the nape of Sephiroth’s neck feel like little kisses against his fingers. As he lathers the soap and runs his fingers through Sephiroth’s hair, runs them through the strands up the nape of his neck, he can almost _feel_ the muscles in Sephiroth’s face pull into a smile. He _knows_ , even without facing Sephiroth, that he is starved for touch too, and he’s never felt so comfortable with someone in his life. It’s easy. It’s beautiful to give something that is needed and to have it be taken so gratefully, so simply. 

He combs his fingers through the mass of silver hair one more time, checking for any stray snags or knots, and one he is satisfied, he starts to drain the tub. He runs the tap again and grabs a plastic basin from the cabinet. “Close your eyes. Time to rinse.”

Sephiroth is obedient, pliant, but he is growing cold, and he trembles as Cloud pours the warm water over his head. His arms are heavy when he takes the towel from Cloud and clutches it around himself, but he just stands there, looking at Cloud as if something else is supposed to happen now. 

Now that he’s standing, Cloud can see that Sephiroth’s lower legs and feet are bruised, and his feet are practically skeletal. Without even thinking, he grabs Sephiroth by the upper arms and starts to rub him with the towel, holding him close. His chest feels full to bursting, but he can’t watch this tall, powerful man stand there like a puppet, waiting for something to happen. The soft pout of his thin lips, the hollow curve of his belly, the terrible way his collarbones stick out like they’re sharp enough to cut glass—from what Cloud he can see, he begs for tenderness, and he has so rarely received it. _I am so, so lonely._ And Cloud wants to give as much as he can.

 _The Planet_.

The voices have been so loud today, so insistent, and they had been quiet when he had taken care of Sephiroth’s hair. _Why now_ , he wonders, squeezing Sephiroth’s hair with the towel and setting him to sit on the edge of the tub for just a moment. 

“I’ll get some clothes. Wait here.”

“Don’t worry, Cloud,” laughs Sephiroth, and it’s a real laugh, even if he’s looking at his pigeon-toed feet, and his teeth are chattering and his skin is still damp. “I have nowhere to go.” 

When Cloud comes back, Sephiroth is sitting in exactly the same slouched position, but he looks up at Cloud right away. “You came back.”

“It was just a few minutes. Your fashion choices are gonna be… kinda limited.” He rubs the back of his head the way he does when he’s embarrassed, and passes Sephiroth the t-shirt, sweatpants, and ratty old flip-flops he found. “You’ll have to pull the drawstring pretty tight, but the shirt should be okay. Sorry we don’t have anything else. We can get you something that suits you better tomorrow.”

“This will do,” Sephiroth says. “I’m so…”

 _Don’t say grateful, don’t say thank you, just take it_ , Cloud thinks, knowing that the Gold Saucer shirt he handed over has holes in the armpits and the sweatpants have _COSTA DEL SOL_ written on the butt. _Barret, what the fuck_.

“I’m touched.” 

And he means it. But he doesn’t move, just looks at Cloud expectantly. For a moment, the only noise is the little drips and drops of water from the ends of his hair. 

Cloud takes a step back and realizes— “Oh! You want to get dressed. I… are you alright? I can wait outside?”

Sephiroth nods, and Cloud scurries out, cheeks burning. The bath seems to have helped, and Sephiroth might be dazed, but he’s not a child.

 _You moron_.

“Shut up,” Cloud mutters, as Sephiroth comes out of the little bathroom, it’s shocking that someone so starved, so tired, so hurt could look so handsome in Costa Del Sol butt-print pants and a t-shirt that he’s pretty sure was last used as a cleaning rag.

“Is somebody there?” Sephiroth asks, peering around the dark hallway. “Did you say something?”

“Uh, no, I—I’m just saying, we’re up! It’s time for dinner! Or Tifa will actually kick both of our asses. She’s the boss of this place.” _Smooth, dumbass_. “How are you feeling after your bath? Any better?”

Sephiroth nods, but as he takes a shaky step forward, he nearly stumbles, and grabs onto Cloud’s forearm. His grip is surprisingly strong, but Cloud takes it in stride, and helps him stand up straight. “You must be starving, right?”

“Mm.” Sephiroth loosens his grip a little and peers down at Cloud. Sephiroth looks so young, can’t be more than a few years older than Cloud, but deep lines trace his cheekbones and carve purple half-moons under his unfocused eyes. His skin is dull, but slightly flushed from the bath, but he looks right at Cloud. _Through_ Cloud. It’s eerie, and Cloud glances away. “I can’t repay you for… all of this. You’ve been too kind to me.”

“Don’t worry,” Cloud laughs as they slowly make their way to the stairs. “The clothes are yours to keep, if you want to. And I’m not sure you want to.” 

They take each step one at a time, and Sephiroth’s mouth is a moue of concentration as he struggles to angle his foot just so, testing his weight on frail legs. 

“We have a little room upstairs, so you can stay here for tonight, but then we’ll find you somewhere for you. The people here in Sector Seven are… well, they’ve taken good care of me. And I’m kind of a mess too!”

 _Thank you_.

He snaps to attention. The voice. It just won’t leave him _alone_ today, and it’s mocking him by taking on Sephiroth’s soft tone, and he finds he wants to talk to Sephiroth, hear Sephiroth, the real one, see him healed, but—

 _Thank you, Cloud, thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou_.

When they make it to the bottom, they are both shaking, one from effort and the other from anxiety, but Cloud won’t let the voice drown out his good acts. And he can hear Biggs, Wedge, Jessie, and Barret, and the clinking of cups and cutlery. 

“Alright, here we go, Sephiroth.” He keeps his arm looped through the crook of Sephiroth’s elbow so Sephiroth can rest his hand on Cloud’s forearm for support. For the beautiful feeling of touch, the thing Cloud didn’t know he could love so much. “Ready to meet the gang?”

“Mm.”

“Oh, and when Tifa offers you a second plate, you’d better take it, even if you don’t want it.”

“I’m afraid… I’ll be sick if I eat too much,” Sephiroth mumbles, hanging his head. “It’s been some time… since…”

“No, no,” Cloud shook his head, poking Sephiroth in the side. “Take it so _I_ can eat it. She’s going to spoil you and I’m not gonna let it go to waste.”

Sephiroth looks down at Cloud and gives his forearm a light squeeze. “Lead the way, then.”


	3. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has dinner. Marlene has a lot to say.
> 
> No beta, so I apologize for any mistakes or inconsistencies. I am grateful for all of your kind, thoughtful comments and even if this chapter is a little shorter than the previous one, I hope this fic can bring some comfort and happiness to you all.

Dinner is… an ordeal. Lately, Cloud has preferred to eat alone, either after everyone else has gone to the basement for a meeting or, if Tifa sees a certain look in his eyes, back in his room at Stargazer Heights. Sitting with the group, hearing their chatter, the clatter of cups and the sounds of chewing, the pressure to say something, to look somewhere—it makes him feel like his mind is on fire, like every tight-wound muscle in his body wants to claw its way out of his skin. 

But he puts on a brave face. Sephiroth needs to eat, Cloud knows, and Tifa’s gleaming smile as she stands in front of the group seems to indicate that there’s no escaping what they call “family dinner.”

 _Some kind of family we are, huh_.

By the time they’re all seated, Sephiroth has a pale sheen of sweat on his face. Shaking hands with everyone, crouching down to greet Marlene, and receiving a bone-crunching surprise hug from Wedge was a _lot_. He sits at Cloud’s right, and seated opposite him is Marlene, who seems completely unafraid of this gaunt stranger. It had taken _weeks_ for her to warm up to Cloud, and he had been on the receiving end of Barret’s scolding more times than he could count. _I’m not scaring her, that’s just how I look!_

But Sephiroth? Marlene is entranced—by the delicate, proper way Sephiroth holds his fork and knife in his bony hands, by his still-damp, impossibly long hair. 

“Marlene, honey, it’s not nice to stare,” Barret says as he cuts the meat on Marlene’s plate. “Cloud’s goin’ around doing some good for once, I know it’s a big deal, but let’s focus on eatin’, okay?”

She nods, but doesn’t look away from Sephiroth, who pushes his food around his plate for a few moments before looking up. “Tifa, thank you for the meal,” he says, his voice shaking a little. Cloud watches out of the corner of his eye. “I… I really can’t thank you enough. Words mean so little. But...”

“Please!” she laughs. “I’ve known Cloud all my life, and I’m happy to take care of anyone Cloud wants to help. No need to thank me.”

Jessie chimes in, winking at Sephiroth, “Sector Seven is a rough place, and the least we can do is give you a home-cooked meal!”

“Still, I’m… overwhelmed.” Under the table, he brushes his hand against Cloud’s, and squeezes his hand, as if to say something he doesn’t know how to articulate. Cloud nearly jumps at the shock of it, and snatches his hand away.

_Asshole! You can give the dude a bath but you can’t let him say thank you? The fuck is wrong with you?_

Cloud shakes his head, grits his teeth, stares at the ceiling, and the conversation has thankfully moved on.

“So, Sephiroth, what brought you to our lovely little part of Midgar?” Biggs asks. 

Sephiroth pauses. “I can’t exactly say. I mean, I can’t say why I ended up here, specifically. I’ve been traveling, looking for something.”

When he doesn’t continue, the rest of them look up from their plates. He doesn’t seem aware of the silence, just pushes the pieces of potato around with his fork for a moment. His brow furrows in concentration. 

Jessie opens her mouth to speak, but Tifa shoots her a look.

 _I should’ve held his hand,_ Cloud thinks, filled with hate for himself and his cowardice. He can feel something crackling in the air, maybe a smell or an aura, something rolling off of Sephiroth in waves, and his head is so _full_ and so damn _loud_. He focuses on flexing his toes inside his boots, flexing and unflexing his ankles, feeling the blood flow through his legs. The therapist told him to imagine his feet growing roots into the earth, grounding, connecting. _Feel this, not whatever the fuck kind of crazy is going on with me. Help this guy, don’t be such a piece of—_

“I was a… a research specimen, I guess you could say. One of Shinra’s science projects. Testing their technology on me, to see what would happen. It was—” Sephiroth’s voice is clearer now, and the jukebox has wound down, but Cloud only hears buzzing in his ears, feels sticky sweat pooling at his collarbone.

_My precious specimen, you’ll do very nicely. Not as good as the other one, a little small, but you’ll do just fine._

“Stop it,” Cloud mutters to himself, but nobody hears him— _I hope, oh Gaia please get a grip_ —as Sephiroth continues his story.

“—I was able to escape, but I’ve lost a lot of my memory, and I want to figure out what happened to me. And why.”

Marlene stares up at him, eyes wide as ever, but the rest of the members of AVALANCHE are bristling. 

“So they tortured you!” Biggs nearly yells. “Those Shinra fu—”

_Please, please stop! It burns! I can’t bear it, please, stop, I can't—_

“Watch your language!” Barret snaps, casting a glance at Marlene. “This is talk for later.”

“I’m sorry,” Biggs says, “I don’t want to upset anyone. There isn’t much more to tell, anyway.”

Barret shakes his head, ruffling Marlene’s hair. “No, your story is your story, man. Any enemy of Shinra is a friend of ours. It’s just... you know, getting close to my daughter’s bedtime.”

“Of course.”

Cloud’s mind has quieted a little, and he burns with shame; he hadn’t even heard half of Sephiroth’s story, could only focus on himself, his dysfunction, his inner shrieking, glimpses of little memories flickering in his mind’s eye so fast they’re a blur. Although he’s sure his hand is sweaty, he sees that Sephiroth has put his fork and knife down, and he reaches out under to see if Sephiroth’s hand is still there. And it is. When the tips of their fingers touch, his stomach lurches, but the heat and prickling discomfort under his skin still for a moment.

Fortunately, the conversation has shifted to what’s been going on in the neighborhood—some new construction, a water main leak, some monsters in the junkyard that need taking care of—and Cloud and Sephiroth observe quietly. Sephiroth only pulls his hand away to poke at a potato, and the pain of feeling him let go is much sharper than Cloud would have thought.

“You don’t like chicken?” Jessie asks, pointing at Sephiroth’s plate. “You must be hungry, don’t you—”

Shoulders hunched, Sephiroth repeats his most-used phrase again: “I’m sorry, I don’t… can’t eat meat. After… at the labs...—”

“You just look so—”

“Jessie!” Tifa cuts in, before turning to Sephiroth. “That’s okay. I can find something else for you to eat.” She dashes off to the kitchen before Sephiroth can get in another apology.

Sephiroth nods to himself, biting his lip, and only Cloud notices the wet glimmer in Sephiroth’s brilliant green eyes. 

In almost no time at all, Tifa comes out with a plate of avocado-tomato sandwiches, piled high, and Biggs and Wedge nearly jump from their seats. “You have avocados? And you were keeping it from us!?”

She just shrugs and sets the sandwiches in front of Sephiroth with a smile. He reaches out and takes one before gingerly taking a bite, and Cloud feels a surge of joy just watching this starved man eat. And eat. And eat. He devours the sandwich before anyone can even tell him to slow down, and he sits back with a cat-like smile when he’s finished. 

_My beautiful son._ Cloud shakes his head back and forth rapidly at the rattling voice in his head, but plays it off as a sudden shiver. _They know, they think I'm completely crazy_.

Tifa gives a slight nod at the group, and Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge grab some sandwiches for themselves, nearly matching Sephiroth in their eating speed.

Marlene, however, has gone back to staring at Sephiroth. “Your hair is so pretty,” she blurts out. _Sephiroth said he liked my hair_ , Cloud remembers.

“Sometimes Cloud braids my hair when Daddy is away and Tifa is busy,” Marlene continues. “And yours is so long! Maybe if you ask nicely, Cloud will braid it for you."

Usually, Cloud chooses not to speak, or his anxiety paralyzes him, but this time he finds he has nothing to say. His mouth drops open, and his crosses his arms, but Sephiroth just grins. That smile is a gut punch, an arrow to his heart _,_ _embrace me, Cloud_ _—_

“That’s a good idea, Marlene. I guess I’ll have to ask him some time.” Sephiroth turns in his seat, and it seems to take some effort, but the corners of his mouth are turned up, there are little wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, and Cloud feels like he is going to explode.

When Wedge and Tifa finally get up to clear the plates, Marlene decides she has more to say. She opens her mouth, and Cloud is almost afraid, but what comes out has nothing to do with him and Sephiroth. 

“Oh, and Tifa got married.”

Barret nearly spits out his drink and the rest of them freeze in place. “Where did you hear that, Marlene?!”

“I didn’t _hear_ it,” she corrects, her tiny voice commanding the room. “I _saw_ it. Tifa was holding a lady’s hand in the street!”

“Baby, you hold my hand all the time! And the kids at your school, don’t you hold hands when you cross the street? Doesn’t mean anything.”

Marlene shakes her head. “But if you hold hands and then you _kiss_ , that means you’re married, right?”

Tifa blushes bright red and everyone’s eyes go wide, but the rest of the group—Cloud and Sephiroth included—bursts into laughter. Jessie nearly falls out of her chair, and Biggs and Wedge have tears streaming down their face.

“What’s so funny? Marriage is serious!” She jabs her fork into the air for emphasis, then sits up even straighter. “And Tifa didn’t even tell us!”

Barret gently lowers her arm, but he can barely contain his own chuckles.

“People sometimes laugh when they’re happy,” Sephiroth explains, folding his hands in his lap. “And today I’m happy because it’s been so long since I’ve had a nice dinner with someone as perceptive as you.”

Marlene ponders for a moment before nodding, as if to accept the compliment, although she leans over shortly after to whisper in Barret’s ear: “Daddy, what’s ‘perceptive’ mean?”

Before Tifa can make her escape to the kitchen, Jessie hauls herself up and slouches in the doorway in front of her. “So, Teef, when were you gonna tell us about your mystery woman, huh?”

“Not today, that’s for sure,” she replies. 

“What’s she like? What’s her name? Tell us _everything_. I need to know!”

Wedge joins in. “We all need to know, Tifa! Pleeeease!”

“Use your imagination,” Tifa grumbles, and shoves her way past Jessie.

 _Family dinner isn’t so terrible_ , Cloud thinks, and he feels his mouth pull into a smile all on its own. Feels Sephiroth’s beautiful, soft hand tucked into his.

* * *

By the time everyone has gone on their way, Cloud can tell that Sephiroth is struggling to stay awake. _So am I_. They make their slow, steady way up the stairs, and Cloud marvels at the way the hairs stand up on the back of his neck when Sephiroth leans into him, when he laughs gently when recalling Marlene’s speculation about Tifa's relationship.

The spare room is just that—spare. A single bed pushed into the corner, with frayed sheets pulled military-tight across the thin mattress. Dust covers every inch of the bookshelf in the corner, and one of the windowpanes has a sad crack running through it. The only light in the room is the mako glow that drifts over everything under the plate; the lamp on the bedside table won’t turn on, and Cloud is more concerned about Sephiroth falling asleep in his arms— _falling asleep in my arms, why would I even think about that_ —than finding a spare bulb.

“Can’t believe we made it all the way through dinner and nobody commented on your pants.”

“Maybe I looked so good in them they had no idea what to say,” Sephiroth murmurs as Cloud helps him sit on the bed. 

Cloud smiles again, ghosting his hand over Sephiroth’s shoulder as he pulls away and busies himself fluffing the sad, lone pillow. “That must be it.”

The silence that falls over them is easy, pleasant, and Cloud enjoys the mechanical actions of pulling back the sheets, helping Sephiroth adjust his legs, propping him on the pillow just so, moving his hair so it won’t bunch up behind his neck. In the gentle quiet, he knows what Sephiroth needs without being asked, without even thinking. He knows that the sheets are bunched up at his feet, and smooths them down, knows to fold the blanket down just so, knows he’s not too cold or overheated. He can feel it too, and he wonders at it.

When he stands to leave, he feels firm fingers grasp around his wrist.

_Don’t go._

He hears it echo in his mind, a searing pain behind his eyes, before Sephiroth says it: “Don’t go.”

The ache in his body from his long day and the yearning to comply are far more powerful than any embarrassment or shame at his sweaty clothes, his tics, his voices. He’s too tired to wonder at the echoes in his mind and the thread that he imagines connects him to this man, this stranger he thinks he’s seen before. He can feel Sephiroth’s loneliness because it’s the same loneliness that sits deep in his bones. 

“I don’t know why,” Sephiroth murmurs as he struggles to keep his glowing eyes open, “but I think I will be able to sleep better if you stay just a little longer.”

Cloud agrees, and he pulls up a chair to sit by the bed. His hands fidget in his lap, and he stares at the ceiling, away from this angel, this _perfect specimen, he’s amazing!_ , to clear his thoughts.

Unbidden, the words come tumbling out. “I should tell you… I mean, I shouldn’t tell you this. Tifa said people are wrong to think I’m crazy, but I probably am, and… sometimes I hear things, things that I know aren’t real. Like voices, talking to me, telling me things.”

Sephiroth looks up at him. _Gazes_ at him. 

_He is so, so beautiful_ , Cloud thinks, and he hates that he can’t stop himself from talking. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this, but I don’t want to screw up, I just want to help you, and if I make a mistake or something, please know I’m trying. Downstairs, they all look at me like I’m a little kid. You’ve been through too much to end up with some fucked up person like me looking out for you.”

“The whole world is messed up, Cloud,” comes the gentle reply. “It’s the ones who _aren’t_ crazy that really make me wonder. Maybe you are the only one seeing things clearly. You know the truth of what’s happening to our Planet.”

_Our Planet. Let’s take it. Be with me forever._

Cloud shakes his head back and forth, scratches at his arms and neck for a brief moment, but Sephiroth does not look away, does not say anything at all. Doesn’t even blink. 

_I hate myself, I am disgusting, he’s so unlucky._ _I just want him to be okay_. 

“You have been so kind to me,” Sephiroth breathes, reaching out to interlace his fingers with Cloud’s.

Before Cloud can figure out what to say next, Sephiroth’s eyes have fluttered closed, and his breathing settles into a steady, soothing rhythm. Cloud fights to stay awake, just to see Sephiroth, just to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, but the warm pulse of Sephiroth’s hand in his own lulls him into the first deep sleep he’s had in weeks.


	4. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood and mentions of needles. Continuing discussion of mental illness and therapy as well—a lot of it comes from my own experience with mental health treatment, so if things are wrong or don't apply to your experience or knowledge, it's because my experience is narrow and personal.
> 
> Just a short chapter this time. I promise things will get moving soon. School and work have been very busy for me during this last week, but I treasure every single one of your comments. It might take a while to get to the fluffy, happy parts of this story, but I swear they will come!

When Cloud wakes up, the voice in his mind has finally shut the fuck up. But when he opens his eyes, the little room above Seventh Heaven is gone. He had expected to wake up sore and cramped from falling asleep in that sad little chair, with that _man_ —

_Sephiroth! He was right here with me! Where did he go?_

Cloud leaps to his feet, or at least he tries to, but he feels something nasty and _sharp_ yank him back by the elbow and hand. He feels his soft, pale skin tear, and goosebumps ripple up his arms and his bare legs under the blanket in the strange emptiness of this new room. _Where did my pants go?_

When he looks around, everything is white and shiny chrome, beeps and soft clicking. The air is so thin and cool it feels fake. He sees a few IV bags hanging above him and glances down to see where he’d ripped the needles out of his elbow and the top of his hand, which rest on a white knit hospital blanket. He breathes slowly, the way his therapist instructed, in through his nose and out through his mouth, counting, and peels away the medical tape, which takes a few hairs with it off the back of his hand. 

_I must’ve really screwed up now. They finally did it. Finally put me in one of these places. I told Sephiroth about myself and I guess they must’ve finally taken me away. Crazy._

But this is no slum hospital. He can’t see a single speck of dust in the room, and there are fragrant pink flowers on the bedside table, approaching full bloom. But no windows. Just the noise of the machines, and his own forced breathing, _I_ _N-two-three-four-five-six-seven, pause, OUT-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight… Don’t rush it! Dumbass!_ Nearly wheezing, gasping, he rips off the plastic monitor clipped to his index finger, then goes to work removing the sticky pads under his hospital gown. Finally, his skin is free, they aren’t doing Gaia-knows-what-to-him, and his breathing exercise settles into a tentative rhythm.

His body feels sluggish, but his muscles warm up when he lifts his legs out from under the cover and puts his bare feet on the cold, linoleum floor. _Time to explore. Time to get the hell out of here_. He wipes away the stray spots of blood on his hand and his elbow with the white sheets, and shudders at the weird feeling of the climate controlled, strangely dry air under his hospital gown. Off to the right, there’s a small bathroom, so he rinses his hand again and splashes his face, rakes his wet nails against his scalp. 

It is all so, so real. And quiet. 

The face in the mirror is the same as always, dotted with freckles, unnaturally brilliant eyes, but nobody has come running now that he’s taken all the hospital crap off himself. _Well, not yet._ Somehow he knows—he won’t be alone for long, they won’t let him. _I don’t want to be here anymore. I have to—_

Before he even realizes it, his breaths quicken again, and he hears his feet slapping against the floor as he tears out of the bathroom and yanks open the next door he finds. _Hallway, then stairs, then I’m out of this place. I’m not crazy. I’m really not_.

_“You’re not crazy, Cloud,” Tifa had told him a few weeks ago, holding his clammy hand between two of her own, looking down as she stroked her fingers across his disgusting sweaty shameful nervous skin. “You’re just different, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Really.”_

_When people feel the need to repeatedly tell you something isn’t wrong_ , Cloud thinks, _that means it probably is_.

The hallway reeks of alcohol and industrial-strength cleaner, but the odor sharpens his senses, and he can feel the air conditioning blast through his hair, even the little hairs on his arms and legs, as he darts down the silver hallway. It’s familiar, this path, like he’s run it many times before, and it feels so _nice_ to run, until—

The window. What the _hell_? Stopping just short of flinging himself through the floor-to-ceiling window, he crashes into the handrail in front of it, _thunks_ his forehead against this thick, probably patient-proof glass. He’s never seen anything like this before.

Nearly all of Midgar is spread out beneath him, around him, glowing its sickly green beneath the deepening pinks and marigolds of the sunset. He’s never seen one so beautiful in all his time in Midgar— _how long has it been? Tifa won’t say, I don’t remember, what day is it_ —and he wants to cry. It is so, so lovely. Almost too lovely. He doesn’t deserve to see it. He hasn't seen anything so blindingly perfect since Nibelheim. He can see the steam—or whatever it is that the powers that be like to call “harmless steam with no ill health effects, we assure you”—drifting out of the mako reactors, see the scorched ring around the city. In his rising, stifling panic, he thinks he can even see the people far, _far_ below, going about their evening on the plate, shopping and smiling, loving, holding hands. But they’re so far away. 

_I’m not sick. I shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks, tightening his white-knuckle grip on the handrail. The little space between his toes starts to itch, and his scalp tingles, his mouth dries out in an instant. _This place is sick, not me. The whole PLANET is sick, sick, sick, disgusting_ …

But then, out of the corner of his eye—something bright and shining, just a glint of light, a roaring noise, a sharp-clawed hand on his shoulder.

 _Here it comes, my son. Meteor, to cleanse us all_.

And he just stands there. Watching. He doesn’t wonder anymore how he ended up here, in this hermetically sealed place, floating above the sleepless city. This isn’t a sunset, he realizes, but his breathing is calm. Only the sweat on his neck and the cracks in the metal handrail under his fingers betray him.

As he watches this thing _—Meteor?_ —fall, the heat builds, bathing his face and chest in a beautiful, comforting warmth. The glass is thick, but it starts to crack under the shimmering heat. But he doesn’t step back. He is transfixed, glued to his place by the gorgeous horror unfolding before him, but he sees something flicker behind his wide-eyed reflection in the window. Green cat eyes, but what cat is over six feet tall and yelling, screaming, _Cloud, no, you’re going to hurt yourself, don't do that!_

The handrail actually _snaps_ with a satisfying metallic crunch under his hands. _Would make a good weapon if these people won’t let me out of this place_ , he muses, before the window explodes, blasting white hot glass into the curved hallway of the hospital tower, throwing him back into the opposite wall. He collapses into a heap on the floor, feels the blood spilling out of his face. It doesn’t hurt, but he presses his cheek to the ground, resting for a moment, as he watches the flames streak across the sky out the window. The city screams. Something screams.

_These humans are all going to die! I’m going to die, too!_

_You're not going to die, I promise, you're going to be alright._

There are hands on him, snatching him up. _They got me, shit_. He thrashes in their grip, afraid they’ll take him away from the window, the only thing he wants to see. It's too beautiful to look away, and it pains him to be torn away from it.

“Let me go! Let me go, you asshole! I don’t want to—”

He shrieks as someone plucks a piece of glass from his cheek, and he can’t fight them off anymore; he clutches his face in pain, feeling it all, and when he pulls his hands back they are covered in blood, but… water? 

“Cloud, Cloud, wake up, I think you hurt yourself,” comes the voice, soft and smooth, and he’s never heard any hospital orderly sound like that. Like it really _matters_ , like it’s personal, it’s close, it’s—

“Where am I?” Cloud snarls, shoving his captor away and leaving bloody palmprints across the orderly’s chest. “I don’t want to be here anymore! I want to see it!”

Cat eyes look down, then right back at him. “You’re in Seventh Heaven. You brought me here yesterday. I think… you had a bad dream.”

He feels something drop in his stomach, feels his heart leap into his throat, and the voice is right. _Sephiroth, that’s his name, look at him_ , he’s right. It wasn’t real, it was one of his nightmares, he isn’t taking his medication, can't even remember the last time he swallowed those treacherous lying pills, she will be _so_ disappointed, he hates that he doesn't get to choose. _I want to see it_.

“Cloud, can you hear me? Cloud… you’re hurt...”

With a groan, Cloud curls into a ball, pressing his hands to his face. He can feel the sharp points of wet glass pricking into his palms, but maybe if he hides like this, Sephiroth won’t see, he’ll just go back to bed, he’ll leave him alone, and Cloud can just disappear, fade into nothing like he so deeply desires, go back to his beautiful dream. _It’s working_ , Cloud thinks, because Sephiroth doesn’t say anything for a while, and he feels himself grow tired again.

_You see, Cloud? You can see it. I know you can. Wasn't it lovely?_

“Shh,” Cloud whispers, but when the hands settle on his shoulders again and gently lift him up to a sitting position, he’s too exhausted to resist anymore. “Stop talking. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

Sephiroth’s hands come to Cloud’s wrists and slowly pull Cloud’s hands away from his blood-soaked face. “You must’ve knocked over the glass of water when you were dreaming,” he murmurs, and Cloud doesn’t protest when Sephiroth leads him to the little bathroom, sits him down toilet lid, and somehow finds a first aid kit. “You put it there on the table for me before we fell asleep. Just look at me, don’t think about the pain.”

Sure enough, Cloud’s shirt is soaked, but he can’t figure out how it happened. When did he put the glass there? It wasn’t some freakish fiery explosion that had shredded his face; just a stupid, fucked up mistake done by a stupid, fucked up person.

“You’re not stupid,” Sephiroth continues, his long fingers ghosting over Cloud’s face. The antiseptic burns, but the weird touch of tweezers plucking out the shards of glass—that’s not so bad. It’s delicate, it stings, it hurts, but Cloud isn’t a stranger to pain, and Sephiroth’s face is just inches from his own. _Look at me_. Just a few hours ago— _what time is it, what day is it, what happened?_ —Sephiroth had looked so lifeless, so sickly, but a splash of color has bloomed in his cheeks, and the soft, clean tendrils of his hair tickle the tops of Cloud’s arms as he works on Cloud's wounds. The tip of his tongue darts out of his mouth as he concentrates. “Accidents happen. And you’ll heal quickly.”

“How…”

“Your eyes, Cloud. You’re like me.”

_Like you, Cloud._

“The mako, I mean,” he says. “You heal faster than other people, don’t you?”

Cloud nods. It’s true, he supposes, but he’s never thought much of it. He’s a SOLDIER. _Was_ a SOLDIER.

“I think that’s what Shinra did to me, too. Look at my eyes.” Sharp, mako green, like the glow of Midgar in the dream. 

He _won’t_ give in, won’t let the nausea override him, distract him from Sephiroth’s beauty. Cloud’s muscles automatically pull his mouth into some bizarre rictus of a smile, but something on his face tears in two, and Sephiroth immediately grabs some more gauze and gets back to work. 

“Try not to smile.” 

_I did it to myself. I smashed the glass into my face. There’s no other way. Sephiroth was sleeping, and all alone, I am every bit as crazy as Tifa says_. _Maybe... worse._

“You seem better now,” Cloud says, trying to hold his gaze on Sephiroth’s eyes, trying not to stare too hard, trying not to hate himself. _Creep._

Sephiroth nods a little and busies himself with one last little piece of glass, lodged at Cloud’s hairline. “A little bit of sleep can fix almost anything. And we heal quickly, don’t we? The children of the mako.”

“Mm,” Cloud replies. 

_My child. My beautiful child._

He can’t help it, can’t hold it back. “Shut _up_. Stop it.”

Sephiroth doesn’t react, but he doesn’t say anything, either. He just stands back and scrutinizes his work. With one hand on his hip and one latex gloved hand pressed to his lips, he looks like an artist inspecting a sculpture he’s made. _Except for the blood all over his shirt. My handprints. I made him dirty like me._

“I think that’s better, don’t you?” 

_Why is he doing so much better and I’m sitting here all cut up like a freak? I hate—_

With a flourish, Sephiroth rips off the gloves and packs the first aid kit away. His hands are firm but soft as he takes Cloud by the hand and shoulder and steers him out of the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, and back to the dark bedroom. 

Before Cloud can do anything, even say anything, Sephiroth wordlessly takes off Cloud’s boots and pulls him under the covers beside him, still in his stained, wet clothes. It’s easy to let go when he isn’t doing it alone. This type of care feels so new, so unfamiliar, and he doesn’t mind sharing this one pillow with a stranger. 

_He’s not a stranger now._ _Can’t be strangers with—_

He leans himself against Sephiroth’s lean body, lets tentative fingers stroke gently over his arm, over the bandages of his face, lets Sephiroth whisper to him.

_Let me help you._

“You just need to sleep now. I can stay awake to make sure you don’t have a nightmare again, or don’t flip over onto your face. Just rest, Cloud.”

Like his therapist had suggested, sometimes Cloud counts things in the room to help himself calm down, or to fall asleep. Sometimes it’s things that start with the letter “s”—sheet, sword, shirt, socks, stereo; or things that are a certain color, or imaginary groups of things. Like counting happy chocobos jumping over a dreamy, sun-soaked fence in his mind’s eye. So he does. He counts the ceiling beams, then he starts to count the things that he can feel: bandages, his clothes, the anxious curling and uncurling of his toes, the ache in his bones.

The flat pillow, the scratchy blanket, the welling pain in his cheeks and chin, Sephiroth's warm hand smoothing Cloud’s hair away from his forehead, the dip in the mattress from Sephiroth's weight, Sephiroth’s warm breath just almost reaching Cloud's neck as he murmurs something nice. “You’ll feel better in the morning. You took good care of me, let me take care of you now. You are kind, you are just tired, let yourself be tired, let sleep take over. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Mmhmm,” Cloud mumbles, letting his eyes close, letting the pain drift away.

_Let me adore you._


	5. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud eats breakfast. Tifa considers a new business opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter this time. So far, I've confined the chapters to particular scenes/incidents. Going forward, that will change; I just wanted to get this out as I've been finding myself writing in a weird little sprints after I'm meant to go to bed, and I get excited about a scene. But we will soon learn more about Cloud and Sephiroth's new routine in Sector 7, their journey to figure out what happened to them, and—of course—Tifa's "wife"!
> 
> Thank you again for your thoughtful, kind, and encouraging comments. Seeing views, kudos, and comments is what keeps me going with this fic when I have ideas for so many more to come (fallen/protective guardian angel Sephiroth?, modern AU Sephiroth and Cloud as rival law students, enemies-to-lovers?, short/drabblefic with flirty humor of SOLDIER!Cloud, Zack, and Sephiroth in corona-esque quarantine in Shinra Tower getting up to no good and also polyamory and love?, Aerith/Tifa canon-divergent friends-to-lovers?).

When Cloud wakes up, there is a sad, empty space beside him in the bed, a pitiful dip in the mattress. His face throbs, and his arm is numb from where he’d tucked it under the pillow.

He feels strange, abandoned, clingy for something he can’t have. He can smell the cheap soap intertwined with whatever it is that comes from Sephiroth’s body, something sweet and sharp, and he thinks he can even feel the slight dampness from Sephiroth’s hair still on the pillow. The sheets next to him are still warm, and Cloud hates the way he burrows himself deeper, tucking his head under the covers and inhaling all the way into the bottom of his lungs, afraid to miss even a tiny morsel of whatever it is that Sephiroth has left. After his bath last night, Sephiroth had had some kind of smell, musky and warm, and Cloud hated himself for realizing it, obsessing over it. He’s never felt like this for anyone, never felt so attached, but he had given and given without the expectation of receiving anything in return, and that had been beautiful enough. Refreshing, even. Now, to receive that same care reciprocated, so sweetly and so easily—it had nearly knocked him off his feet. 

He isn’t a creep, or some kind of stalker, or an olfactory expert. But Sephiroth has _something_ about him, in his aura, in the eucalyptus-scented swish of his stupidly long hair as he had so delicately patched Cloud’s pathetic face together in the middle of the night. Objectively handsome is one thing, but there is something else about Sephiroth, like a song you always hum but for which you can’t remember the words, or a smell you can’t quite place in your memories, and it sticks in his mind. Something's there, wormed its way into Cloud's fragile mind, and it's curled up and settled there for good. There’s just something about him, and Cloud is _fixated_. Better to think about this crush, this bizarre attachment, anyway, than whatever the hell that dream was. He can barely remember it now, something about fire, maybe, or going to the hospital. Nothing good, nothing worth dwelling on.

And that morning, for the first time in a while, the voices are silent, and all Cloud can hear were his own sudden, muffled screams of confusion into the pillow— _Sephiroth’s pillow, you freak_. 

_I don’t want them to think I just brought this guy into the bar because I thought he’d help me. I don’t even know why I brought him in. He needed help. I had to help. To do anything else would be wrong, and I’m sick of making everything into a disaster, messing up everything I touch with my sickness, my weirdness. He just looked… sad. I know what sadness is. But I haven’t heard voices that loud, so often, since… let’s not even go there. Can’t take care of another guy if you can’t take care of yourself, you worthless piece of shit. Crazy pervert! What are you doing? Sniffing the guy’s blankets? The therapist said not to get obsessive about things, but she hasn't met him. So... Ugh, Strife, come ON._

When his breathing has stilled and he’s done savoring the odd, relieving press of the coarse, lumpy pillow against his shrieking, bandaged face, he tousles his hair into place and trudges downstairs, doing his best to not think about his blood-stained, still slightly damp clothes. _If I hold my head high and just act like everything’s normal, maybe nobody will notice how bad my face looks. I don't even know, I don't want to know. Sephiroth didn't let me look at the mirror last night, did he? Right? Or they already know. Everyone knows I'm damaged._

Before he hits that one creaky stair he knows is coming, he pauses and slowly crouches into a low squat. He can just barely see the top of Tifa and Sephiroth’s heads through the slats in the staircase, and when he hears the gentle tinkle of mugs and breakfast plates, he knows that they can’t see him in the shadows from the dining area. So he listens, _you weird little kid, always snooping, nobody wants you around, do you get it._

“That looks really nice, thank you.”

“It’s just what we had in the kitchen, but it’ll keep you full all day. You need it. Gotta get your strength back up, huh?”

“You’re right. Thank you, Miss Ti—”

“Just Tifa is fine. Miss… I’m not some schoolteacher or something! Oh man,” Tifa breathes, practically wheezing between her clear, high giggles. Cloud smiles too, clutching onto the rail of the stairs. In the hazy morning half-light, it feels so satisfying to be invisible, to be a wraith in a place they tell him he can call home, to let people just live without the burden of having him be a part of their _human_ conversations. He doesn’t feel like he’s anything at all.

He can hear soft eating noises, plates moving around, coffee being poured. It’s like listening in on a family, the one he doesn’t have, the one he doesn’t belong to.

“I just wanted to let you know—”

“Hm?”

So, just Tifa and Sephiroth. So hopefully no Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie getting in his face about... well, his fucked up face.

When their voices lower to a hush, Cloud’s stomach constricts. _They’ve got to be talking about me. Whatever I’ve done wrong. Maybe they really will send me off to some loony bin like in my dream._ The coffee grinder clicks on, but his hearing is enhanced enough that he can still make out some of their low conversations.

“...nightmares sometimes, you know? I’m sorry, we—”

“—last night, it—”

“ _Oh_ , so that’s what the glass—”

“He’s done too much for me, it’s not—”

“—delusions, you know, auditory hallucinations, she said, and things like that, it’s not real, and he knows—”

“Mi— Tifa—”

“Keep an eye on it, for me—”

“—just takes time. Things take—”

Cloud suddenly feels cold, even though the heat is on full blast and he can tell the ovens are still on. He’s burning up, but the shiver runs down his spine and his sides all the same. He can’t take it anymore. Who is this Sephiroth, this total stranger showing up on their doorstep, to dare to talk about him with Tifa like they’re best friends, like they’re those people in the slum shrink’s office talking about him while he’s there, actually _there in the room_ , limp as a rag doll on the nasty stained sofa, chattering his teeth and staring at the ceiling, muttering about something or other, swords and magic and cell injections. Who does he think he is?

Apologizing for him. That’s the worst pain of all. Worse than any real-unreal screaming in his mind, worse than any self-destructive urge. Tifa is _apologizing_ for Cloud; like it would be better if there was no Cloud to talk about. Maybe then Sephiroth and Tifa could enjoy their nice normal on-time breakfast without having to dissect the lateness and disfigurement of the freak who brought them together. Maybe he should just sink through the floor and vanish into the Lifestream, since that’s all he can—

Suddenly, he springs to his feet and stomps down the stairs, louder than he usually would, and whirls himself around the corner into the kitchen, plastering a mask of normalcy on his face. “Good morning, you two.”

Tifa looks startled, and a flush creeps up her beautiful cheeks, but Sephiroth, somehow in fresh clothes fished out from some nook or cranny, is calm. No, not calm. _Radiant_. He looks like a man rejuvenated, like Gaia had breathed new life into him overnight. True, he’s still unnaturally thin, and the circles pressed under his eyes are deep purple thumbprints, but the eyes themselves glimmer brighter than ever, and his posture is nearly flawless. Somehow he looks taller, healthier, and even angelic, with the half-light from windows framing his silver hair like a halo. He doesn’t blush, doesn’t seem caught by surprise. In fact, he smiles right at Cloud, as if they’re alone together and he's the only thing worth a smile like that, as if he’s never smiled like that before in his entire life. _It’s… a lot_ , Cloud thinks.

_All that from an avocado sandwich and a good night’s sleep? Should tell that therapist that’d do it. Instant cure for whatever you’ve got. Huh._

It gets way more awkward when Cloud realizes he’s standing there with his face half-obscured with bandages, cheeks and lip already swollen, and his already-sweaty shirt still covered in his blood from last night’s incident. 

“Cloud, would you like some coffee?” Sephiroth offers, holding up the pot. His hands only shake a little, and Cloud finds himself fascinated by the sinew of muscle in Sephiroth’s thin arms that he must not have noticed last night, the elegant way Sephiroth’s long forearms lift the coffeepot and pour. Because it’s Sephiroth doing it, even the pour of the coffee in its long arc into the cup is pretty. _It’s just a dude. With coffee. What the fuck, Strife_. 

“I—”

Before he can answer, Tifa laughs. “Cloud doesn’t drink coffee. Well, he’ll take milk, with a little splash of coffee.”

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you like,” Sephiroth says with a shrug, already preparing Cloud’s coffee (milk) and adding a little dash of sugar and cinnamon. “For an extra bit of sweetness.”

Tifa leans back against the bar, watching this strangely domestic scene play out in a bar known primarily for being an eco-terrorist cell’s headquarters and for loud, indulgent nights for the Sector 7 residents who need somewhere to go to escape it all. For a moment, with the light just so, with Cloud facing the other way so she can’t see the evidence of what he’s done to himself— _again, shit_ —it feels homey, the way she’s always wanted Seventh Heaven to be. A comfort, a haven, a place to rest your feet and hang up your hat and be loved no matter what hell is going on in your plate-shadowed life.

Cloud, however, is way too distracted by Sephiroth’s newfound aura of health, wellbeing, and general ethereal beauty, to notice the way Tifa is watching them both. “Sephiroth, thank you.” When their fingers brush as Sephiroth hands over the chipped mug, Cloud pushes down the voices inside his head— _shut up I don’t want to hear about REUNION or whatever it is you want to say, Gaia STOP it_ —and manages to stay quiet. The only outward indication of his problem is the slight jerk of his head, as if to shake off the voice, which he attempts to transition into scrutinizing the food and then sitting across from Sephiroth to ready himself for what has to be the best breakfast spread he’s ever seen under the plate. Or maybe even above.

“You really outdid yourself today, Teef,” he murmurs, looking over it all.

“Don’t I always?” she laughs, busying herself with the dishes for a moment before shutting off the water. “You know, Sephiroth helped. He's pretty handy in the kitchen.”

Cloud raises his eyebrows at Sephiroth, looks up at him over his steaming cup of… whatever it is Sephiroth put together. “Did you, now?”

“Only with a lot of guidance and wisdom from Mi— from Tifa.” Sephiroth nods excitedly, but looks up at Tifa with a smile so bright it almost punches a hole in Cloud’s heart.

_He should smile ONLY at you like that. Not her!!! You deserve it all! My beautiful, lovely son._

He sputters on the coffee-milk concoction, startled by the intrusion of the voice so early in the day. He hadn’t even gotten started, hadn’t even enjoyed this weird domestic moment thing, and the voice is attacking Tifa just for being in the same room as a new friend. _I hate myself._

Sephiroth hands him a napkin, pats the back of his shoulder gently. “Wrong pipe? Too hot?”

“Uh huh,” Cloud lies. “But… it is my order, to a tee.”

“Nailed it,” Tifa laughs from behind the bar. “Maybe once he’s feeling a little better I’ll have to find him a job around here. Don’t worry, Cloud, there’s plenty for the both of you. I know you play darts half the time you’re here and can’t cook rice without burning it.”

“I _can_! I can make lots of things.”

“Instant rice and instant noodles don’t count. We’ve been through this before.”

He’s left speechless at that, so he turns back to the rye pancakes, Nibel porridge with dried mountain fruits, cactuar syrup, cut-up fruit that can't possibly even be in season, and coffee, spread before him. A SOLDIER has to eat, and the grumble in his stomach reminds him that he had spent more time watching Sephiroth eat last night than actually working on his own meal. No time like the present to make up for it.

So he digs in, shoveling food into his mouth like he’d seen a friend do once, like Z— well, whatever his name was, maybe a SOLDIER, a champion eater in the Shinra cafeteria, Cloud’s inspiration in all his gastronomic challenges. Like a machine perfectly designed for inhaling food at maximum speed. This time, Sephiroth leans back and takes in the joy of watching someone eat, watching someone feel simple, easy pleasure who looks so deprived of it. 

Tifa goes on in the background as she washes the dishes, smiling to herself. “Well, it’s not much of a coffee order, but it’s a start, and his coffee was damn good. Maybe we can do coffee, too. Sephiroth can wear one of those aprons they have at those fancy shops on the plate, you can help fix up a busted old espresso machine, Cloud, since you’re great with machines, and soon we’ll be in business. Then we’ll set up a shop up on the plate and bleed those Shinra snobs dry with overpriced coffee.”

Mouth full of pancake, Cloud chimes in. “Maybe we can hire your ‘wife,’ too. She any good with coffee?”

Now, it’s not just Tifa’s cheeks that turn red. The flush reaches her nose, down her neck, and the tips of ears.

“I know you don’t think any of us forgot,” he continues, munching on his pancakes.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, chocobo head,” she grumbles, and with a perfectly placed kick, starts the radio behind the bar, so she can drown out the sound of Cloud’s laughter and get back to her task.

Sephiroth thinks this is the happiest he’s ever been.


	6. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Sephiroth spend the day together.

“I think this one should fit!” Cloud declares, holding up a blue shirt against Sephiroth’s broad shoulders. “What do you think?”

Sephiroth’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and he smiles down at Cloud. “I don’t need another shirt,” he mumbles, but Cloud gives the garment another look and nods, throwing it over his shoulder with the rest of the steadily growing pile.

Sector Seven’s “department store” is a crude imitation of the establishments up on the plate, but Cloud is pretty sure this is the most successful and productive shopping trip he’s ever had in his life. The covered market is more like a permanent garage sale than anything else, and while the inventory might not be as reliable, it sure is varied. He’s seen all sorts of high level materia, seen banned beast parts, every type of weapon imaginable, and even tubes of mako when he’s walked through here. He avoids that part, of course, but on this side of the market, which abuts a small grocery and pharmacy, he is delighted to find the necessities of Sephiroth’s new life.

Cloud has never enjoyed spending the money he’s made since he arrived in Sector Seven. It all feels like unpaid debt, something owed to Tifa, or Barret, or any of the others who have shown him such unmerited kindness. Cloud only owns one pair of shoes; at night, he strips to his underwear or often just sleeps in his clothes, too tired to bother. He can feel his toes poking through every pair of socks he owns. Pajamas are a luxury, he thinks, not a necessity, but as they stroll through the rows of tables and shelves, he feels compelled to grab as many things as he can, just for Sephiroth, all for this stranger he met just twenty-four hours ago. 

In fact, most of Cloud’s newly earned money has remained untouched. Tifa feeds him most of the time in exchange for his odd jobs at the bar, and when left to his own devices, he buys the cheapest brand of ramen he can find, cracks an expired egg into it, pours in some hot sauce for flavor, and hopes his digestive system comes out unscathed.

The voices are quiet now that he is occupied, and Cloud is thrilled to be useful. He had once been a SOLDIER, he had wanted to serve, but today feels more like service than anything he’s ever experienced. 

After breakfast, they had discussed it: Tifa would talk to Marle about the empty room at Stargazer Heights, and Cloud would take Sephiroth to stock up on his necessities. It was easy enough to make a list in his head. For now, they had found some more appropriate day clothes in Barret’s storage—although Cloud found himself strangely missing the _COSTA DEL SOL_ logo on Sephiroth’s butt, which was an issue he would interrogate later—and an extra hair tie from Tifa so Sephiroth could pull his hair back, and they had set off for the market. Sephiroth’s gait had improved, and although he was still extremely pale, Cloud saw some life return to Sephiroth’s face, saw the shine in his— _incredibly beautiful, huh_ —eyes improve. 

Sephiroth needs certain things, he knows: a toothbrush, a razor, soap, a comb, some clothing, a pair of durable shoes, socks, underwear, a warm coat.

But Sephiroth deserves _nice_ things, lots of them, and Cloud is sure of it: the most expensive brand of toothpaste you can under the plate, a fancy hairbrush, tailored clothes that fit him perfectly, that “fell off the back of the truck” cologne from the brands that the rich people above would wear. Sephiroth murmurs his thanks every time Cloud pulls out his wallet and forks over his gil. Cloud feels his cheeks burn, grins as wide as he can at Sephiroth, brushes off the “thank you” and “are you sure” every time. 

He deserves the real thing, and Cloud has to stop himself from snatching up anything Sephiroth might have even looked at for more than a second. After Sephiroth spends an extra moment looking at some ribbons, Cloud is overcome by a bizarre mental image of sitting behind Sephiroth, braiding Sephiroth’s damp hair like Marlene had suggested, and carefully tying it back with a silk ribbon. Pressing his nose to Sephiroth’s scalp and breathing in the smell of shampoo, and _him_ , and—

“Cloud?”

He’s still holding the ribbon in his hands when Sephiroth’s voice snaps him out of his trance. 

“I think that’s everything, isn’t it? Maybe it’s time to go back.”

He’s never felt this way before about anyone, or anything. Sure, he loves looking at motorcycles, and he secretly dreams of racing chocobos when he’s never even seen one up close, but he is captivated by this silver-haired angel who seems to have suddenly fallen into his care. _I’m not fit to care for anyone, but at least I have some savings_.

They head back at Seventh Heaven to have lunch as a break before lugging the alarmingly large number of bags back to Stargazer Heights, and over the counter as he chops vegetables for a quick stir fry, Cloud watches Sephiroth, who slouches in his bar stool, staring at his hands and fidgeting.

“You okay?” Cloud asks, pausing over a bell pepper. “It was kind of a lot, wasn’t it? A lot of people at the market, I mean.”

“It was,” Sephiroth agrees as he picks at the dirt under his fingernails. “When I came to Midgar, I knew I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what I’d find.”

Cloud isn’t sure what to say, so he goes back to chopping the pepper, carefully removing the seeds with a flick of the knife. _And Tifa says I can’t cook!_

With his voice wavering a little, Sephiroth continues talking: “It was as if… as if I was drawn here by something. Like a magnet, pulling me in, and I couldn’t resist it. But I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe because of Shinra Tower, or the reactors, or… I’m not sure.” He raises his eyes to watch Cloud, adjusts his posture a little. 

_Where did all this come from?_

“Were you a SOLDIER?” 

Cloud nods, the grip on the bell pepper tightening; the pepper’s juice runs downs his fingers.

“You look like one. I know we talked about it, the mako, but… there’s more, isn’t there?”

_Why is he getting under my skin like this?_

“Yes, but what do you mean, ‘more’?” he stammers. “More than what?”

“More than just being a SOLDIER,” Sephiroth replies, as if it was clear all along. “You’re tough, your eyes glow, but something else happened to you, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” _but I do, I do, I know, I can’t remember, it’s buried somewhere deep, why are you asking me about this, **what the fuck do you want from me?**_

Sephiroth startles, scoots back in his chair a little. “I don’t want anything from you! I just think we might have something in common. I don’t want to offend you. That’s the last thing I want.”

When Cloud looks down at his hand, the pepper has exploded, his knuckles are white over the handle of the kitchen knife, and he’s not sure what was in his head and what came out of his mouth. The sharp pain behind his eyes is back with a vengeance, and Sephiroth’s sad, wide-eyed look is worse than the headache. “Sorry, I— I sometimes— I… I don’t know what happens to me.”

“That’s alright. I just wanted to know more about you. You saved me, after all.” 

“Huh,” is all that Cloud can say, and he ducks behind the counter to pick up the scattered pieces of the pepper. _You are so fucking stupid_ _sometimes. Get your shit together_.

“But I can stop asking, of course,” Sephiroth says. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“How about you tell me something about yourself instead,” Cloud says as he pops up above the bar again, moving on to the other vegetables he’d scrounged from the back of the fridge. “Why do you think we have so much in common? Were you a SOLDIER too? With the eyes, and all that?” He gestures vaguely at Sephiroth’s face. “If you put on a little muscle, they’d ship you off all over the world to fight for their stupid Shinra bullshit.”

“No, Cloud, I wasn’t in SOLDIER. I was just one of their little lab rats.”

Cloud laughs, and the sound of his own voice rattles around his head. _It’s not funny. Why are you laughing! You fucking imbecile, don’t you dare laugh, hold him down, I can’t listen to this specimen’s vulgarities anymore today—_

Sephiroth purses his lips, cocks his head to the side. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re not a 'little' lab rat,” Cloud replies, trying to save himself from whatever the _fuck_ the voice in his head is making him do. “You’re actually a very _tall_ lab rat.”

When Sephiroth laughs too, a real laugh, straight from his heart, straight into Cloud’s heart, Cloud feels his shoulders loosen, feels the tension break.

_My precious little specimen. Let’s see how strong you really are._

Well, the tension with Sephiroth breaks, but the voice is back, the wound is still raw, and by the time he gets the vegetables into the pan and has the rice— _sorry, Teef, it’s instant, I can’t buy another replacement pan for you_ —ready, he’s lost in his memories and Sephiroth has gone to flick through the jukebox. Or, he thinks, he’s lost in his lack of memory; Sephiroth’s words stick in his mind. “More than just being a SOLDIER,” Sephiroth had said, as if he had read something in Cloud’s eyes, or read his mind, or come to the conclusion that his rescuer was actually a deluded freak. 

He can remember leaving Nibelheim, he can remember kissing his mother on the cheek, fighting his nausea on all the various vehicles he’d ridden on that ridiculously long journey, but what had happened then? Something more. Something _else_. It has been so many years, but the only images that come to mind must be wrong: a woman with silver hair, a man in glasses pushing something nasty and green into the central line in his neck, smashing a mirror with his fists and attacking someone with a piece of it, fighting, fighting, hands holding him down, needles in his arms, his hands, scalpels on nearly every part of his body, a strong hand holding his, a small smile without a face. He doesn’t like to go there, shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t let Sephiroth see, and he shoves the nausea down with some deep breaths as he pushes the vegetables around in the pan. 

The jukebox is playing now, the food is sizzling and its aroma is surprisingly appealing. This is the most cooking Cloud has ever attempted, and he can’t help but be proud of it. Sephiroth strides over, hands in his pocket, and leans into Cloud’s peripheral vision. “Almost ready?”

“Uh huh,” Cloud replies, dragging himself into reality, because all of _that_ couldn’t be real. “I’ll get some bowls. It might need a little salt.”

Sephiroth shakes his head. “I trust your judgment. I’m sure it will be absolutely delicious.”

When they’re finally seated, Cloud focuses on watching Sephiroth eat, studying the elegance of every motion. When did chewing become so interesting? 

_He is MINE._

Why does he notice the way Sephiroth’s hands are steadier, stronger today? 

_I’ve really gone insane._

“Sephiroth, you’re right. I think we do have something in common. It just… brought up some stuff. Like I told you, I have some problems, but… other than that, I’m like you. I can’t remember a lot of things.”

“Because of Shinra?” Sephiroth props up his chin with his hand, leans over the table on his elbow. 

“Maybe,” Cloud responds. “I don’t know. I guess it’s hard to know what caused it since I don’t remember a lot. But what I remember doesn’t make sense.”

Sephiroth nods. “I understand perfectly.”

These are the words Cloud has wanted to hear for so long. Pity is shameful, and sympathy disturbs him, but _empathy_ —he’s craved it since he arrived here, since he first saw the way that some of the patrons look at him when he’s muttering to himself, since he noticed the way the AVALANCHE crew watches him. Like a bomb that might go off at any time, like a gas leak that’s waiting for a spark to ignite him and destroy everything around him.

After a brief pause, they both pick up their utensils and eat the rest of their meal in comfortable, knowing silence, watching each other the whole time. 

_My son, my lovely son, you should have a friend. Even if he lies about the salt. It does need more salt._

At least the voice isn’t hateful when it speaks, and he enjoys this meal more than any he can remember.

\--

When they head over to Stargazer Heights, Cloud is the one carrying most of the new purchases, but Sephiroth is short of breath. He pauses on the stairs and drops the bags by his feet, but Cloud, still riding the high of cooking a proper meal and sharing it with someone who doesn’t seem afraid of his problems, just smiles and encourages him. “Come on, just a few more. Once you’re ready, you’re joining my workouts.”

“How… am I supposed… to keep up… with an ex-SOLDIER?” Sephiroth pants. “Are you… serious?” 

“Dead serious. It’ll help you recover, too. You already seem better than yesterday, but we start training soon.”

 _Light exercise will help with the mako poisoning, if it’s not too severe_ , he remembers, but he doesn’t know where it comes from. _They should be ambulatory as soon as possible._

“We start… training? For what?” Sephiroth’s hand clings to the rail as if for dear life, and now that he’s made it to the top, Cloud can see the sweat at his temples.

“Just… for the sake of it. For fun.” _Why the fuck would he want to hang out with me, though? What is wrong with me?_ _What isn't wrong with me?_

“If you say so,” Sephiroth groans. “I trust your judgment.”

Cloud leads him down the catwalk, to the last room on the left, and takes out the key that Tifa gave him. “This is all you. Home sweet home.”

Although Sephiroth has caught his breath and seems to be walking normally, he stops short when Cloud opens the door to the little room. 

Before Cloud can turn to look at him, he feels the cold fear rise up his neck, plunge down his throat, strangle him. _Sephiroth’s_ fear. 

“It’s like... a cage.” 

It’s as if Sephiroth’s panic is his panic, as if he can feel the crawling sensation all over not just his skin, but Sephiroth’s skin, too. He can hear Sephiroth’s breathing quicken, watch the tremble of his shoulders and the faint glimmer in his eyes, mirroring Cloud’s. 

“Maybe I should go back to the bar. I can just… stay there… I can… pay Tifa…”

He had never been afraid of his own little room before, just next door; in fact, he had been grateful that Tifa had been able to find something for him so he didn’t have to sleep above the bar, that could have something that actually belonged to him for once.

_Everything should belong to you. To us. This entire rotting Planet, full of all these disgusting traitors!_

He stuffs the voice down and reaches out, up, patting his hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder. “AVALANCHE members stay there a lot, so I don’t know if that can be a long-term solution. But it’s yours, isn’t it?” _Shut up, Strife. You aren’t helping._ “You don’t like small spaces, but this one’s yours. You can… I don’t know, put up some pictures, or give it some color. Right?”

Sephiroth says, “Right.” But he doesn’t seem so sure. 

Of course, Cloud never did any such thing; his own room is a spartan shrine to misery, loneliness, and efficiency. Even the soap in his little bathroom is unscented, and the sheets were there when he arrived. The assortment of pens and scrap paper he’s assembled to take notes or jot down his dreams are stolen from Seventh Heaven’s back office— _she probably knows, oops_ —and the only poster he’s put up, of Joe and Teioh, was found in the trash somewhere. The books on his nightstand haven’t been touched since he found them in a bag on the side of the street and took them home just for the sake of feeling like a person with books. He had connected the TV once, but he hasn’t found the time to watch it. _You spend plenty of time staring at the ceiling and listening to the voices in your head, Strife, so why not turn on the TV?_ Cloud’s room could be anyone’s room, a kid in Nibelheim or some madman in Midgar.

“It'll be your room, at least for now. You don’t have to stay in Sector Seven, of course.” Cloud fills the room with his words, turns away from Sephiroth and busies himself with opening the small window and picking at the corner of the sheets on the bed. He starts to unload the contents of the shopping bags onto the desk and into the drawers under the bed, and when he looks up, Sephiroth takes one hesitant step into the room, releasing a long breath. Cloud stands and before he can stop himself, he grabs Sephiroth’s hands and— _what are you doing!_ —laces his fingers through Sephiroth’s.

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?” Sephiroth manages to ask, looking up at the ceiling, squeezing Cloud’s hands with desperation.

“How about... you stay in my room, just for now, and we can… go through your new things, and you can take a real shower, and we can go for a walk. Or something. It’s not very scenic around here, as you’re probably noticed. So we can _not_ go for a walk, and I have a TV, so you can watch that, or… I can teach you these breathing exercises that I do, when I’m nervous, or when something happens, and even though my therapist is terrible I think it works, or… we can go play darts back at the bar, or… I have some books that you can read, or…”

Without a single word, Sephiroth unlaces his fingers from Cloud’s, looks down at him, and Cloud just barely catches a glimpse of two lines of tears streaked down Sephiroth’s cheeks before Sephiroth crushes him into a surprisingly strong hug, holding him tight as if he might never let Cloud go.

Cloud hopes he never does.


	7. The Malefactors of Midgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Sephiroth unpack, have dinner, and watch terrible TV.

Despite every cell in his body screaming at him to _stay right where he is_ , Cloud starts to extricate himself from Sephiroth’s long-limbed embrace when his face starts to ache. Sephiroth had been right: it was healing fast and some of the wounds were already scabbing, but until now, he’d spent the whole day absorbed with helping Sephiroth. At first he hadn’t noticed, but between his uncontrollable, uncharacteristic smiling and Sephiroth’s surprisingly firm grasp on him, the press of his face against Sephiroth’s chest had reopened one of the cuts, and now he can feel the blood seeping through the bandage and into the soft fabric of Sephiroth’s shirt.

Sephiroth’s thin arms resist at first, but he slowly lets Cloud move away from him. His hands slide around from Cloud’s back and down his forearms, brushing the tops of Cloud’s gloves, and eventually, painfully, his hands drop to his sides. His gaze, Cloud notices, doesn’t waver, as he stares right into Cloud’s eyes. By now, Sephiroth’s breathing is steady, and Cloud doesn’t know how long they have been standing here. It didn’t feel like _enough._ It could’ve been an hour since Sephiroth had first held him close, had struggled to breathe in Cloud’s arms, had counted the seconds of his inhales and exhales with him. Pressed to Sephiroth’s chest, he could hear the wild hammer of Sephiroth’s heartbeat and he had waited so long for it to calm itself. When it finally did, he had simply held on, and Sephiroth had adjusted his arms around Cloud’s neck, closed his eyes and pressed the side of his cheek into the top of Cloud’s head. And they had stayed there in the quiet of the room, as if all the hustle and bustle of Sector Seven had faded away to nothing. Even the voices were quiet. For a moment, the whole Planet felt reduced to this warm, sweet feeling of communicating without words, of giving 

Cloud could’ve held on forever, but now, standing apart— _but way too far away, holy shit, when was the last time someone hugged me_ —he brushes his fingers against the front of Sephiroth’s shirt, where the little splotch of blood has bloomed.

“I got your shirt dirty,” Cloud finally says.

“Good thing you bought me so many new ones,” Sephiroth replies, smiling, as he pushes Cloud’s hand away. 

Cloud’s laugh slips out, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed when he casts a glance at all the shopping bags around their feet. It feels good to laugh, feels good to see Sephiroth’s chest rising and falling with ease. Just minutes—hours?—ago he had been hyperventilating in Cloud’s arms. The room _does_ feel small with two people in it, especially when one of them is as tall as Sephiroth is, but he doesn’t feel the waves of panic rolling off of Sephiroth anymore. The room is calm and the air feels as clear as it possibly can be in Midgar.

“Just a second. And maybe we can unpack a bit of your things.” Before Sephiroth can say anything in reply, Cloud ducks into the bathroom and rips off a piece of toilet paper to dab at the trickle of blood on his face. The sight in the mirror is… ghastly. He hadn’t looked all day, but now he can see what a sight he must’ve appeared to Tifa and all the people at the market. How embarrassed Sephiroth must have been to walk around with this evidence of his insanity and his problems.

His face is a patchwork of bandages, and his cheeks are a little swollen. The bags under his eyes are dark and greenish, and his lips are chapped. Pressing his fingers to the bandages, he can feel that most of the injuries underneath have started to scab over, but the one on his right cheekbone drips a little, so he starts to peel them all off. It doesn’t look so bad now, but a SOLDIER should have mostly healed by now if they were just scratches. The wounds must have been _deep_ last night, and Sephiroth had dealt with it so calmly. In fact, he realizes that Sephiroth must have cleaned up the glass in the morning, because that morning, the room had looked like nothing had ever happened. _How is he so good at this?_

He realizes he’s been staring at himself for too long, so when he pulls the piece of toilet paper away and the blood doesn’t well up on his cheekbone again, he tosses it into the trash along with the bandages, rinses his hands, and steps out into the little room.

For a second, he doesn’t see Sephiroth, but he looks down and finds him sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the shopping bags. As if in a daze, he is running his hands over the things he has pulled out and slowly tucking them into the drawers. His fingers trace every button, every piece of plastic, even the shopping bag, as if he’s never seen so many things for himself in his life.

“Want some help?” Cloud asks. “It’ll go faster. And then we can go do something else. My room is… similar.”

 _Nope, it's worse._ _Lonely._ _Small. Depressing. Belongs to me._

“But we have an antenna for the building and I have pretty much every channel on the Eastern Continent. And even some from Wutai. No subtitles, though.” He squats down next to Sephiroth and starts removing the packaging from the new socks. 

“Is that so?” Sephiroth is holding a green silk ribbon in his hands. His thumb brushes over it, back and forth.

_Shit, I bought that for… I don’t know._

“I, um… wonder how that got there,” Cloud mumbles. 

_It got there because I bought it and put it in there. Like a dumbass. Buying unnecessary shit for a guy who deserves it._

“It’s very nice.” Sephiroth places it between his teeth as he lifts his arms and runs his hands through his hair, which nearly brushes the floor as he combs it out. He pulls it into a loose ponytail and holds it with one hand before grabbing the ribbon and clumsily tying it into a bow.

The ribbon is lopsided, one end trailing longer than the other, but Cloud holds himself back from adjusting it. If he does reach out to touch Sephiroth’s hair, he might lose another hour or so to hugging, and he would really like to finish up with the unpacking, take a shower, and finally feel a little less gross. It’s been a long, strange day, and from what he can tell from here, the sun hasn’t even started to set. He’s sure he reeks, and he can’t remember the last time he changed into clean clothes. His mouth is dry, and he suddenly feels awkward touching all of Sephiroth’s clean things like this.

“Thank you.” Sephiroth seems unbothered by Cloud’s appearance or body odor, so Cloud just nods and finishes arranging the socks in the drawer in a much neater manner than he would ever bother for himself. He’d seen it once on TV, a woman standing them up in folded bundles, so they could all be seen in neat little rows when their owner opens the drawer.

When they’re finished, Cloud bags up all of the leftover packaging, tosses it in the trash, and ushers Sephiroth next door. Sephiroth doesn’t need the encouragement; as calm as he seems, he nearly sprints out of the room to follow Cloud, and Cloud has to double back to turn off the lights while Sephiroth stands outside.

“See, it’s like yours. But… well, it’s a lot like yours.” He gestures at the space, which is almost indistinguishable except for the fact that Cloud’s bed is unmade and the Teioh poster is hanging on the wall with one of its corners threatening to peel off. (And the trash can, which he wants to block with his body to hide it from Sephiroth's sight, is full of empty ramen cups.) “Home sweet home.”

Sephiroth sits on the bed, gently straightening the covers so he can sit on the top blanket, and looks around while Cloud pointlessly stuffs the ramen cups down into the trash, compressing them with his hands, as if that will make them go away. Sephiroth bites his lip, picks at the cuticles of his fingernails, fidgets, but something catches his eye. 

“Cloud. The bathroom has a window.”

“Huh?” 

“I can see it from where I’m sitting.” Sephiroth points at the open bathroom door, where a small window sits adjacent to the sink, high on the wall. “Look.”

Cloud cocks his head and leans over to glance into the bathroom. “It sure does.”

“Does mine have a window too?”

“Um… I think so.”

Sephiroth flicks his ponytail over his shoulder and stands. “Can I open it while I’m here? It might make it feel… less closed.”

“Sure.” 

With a spring in his step, Sephiroth darts over to the window and slides it open. Cloud can see Sephiroth’s shoulders relax, and just like that, Sephiroth becomes more animated. He inspects the room, looks through Cloud’s fridge, rifles through the books. If it were anyone else, Cloud would feel like his privacy had been invaded, but Sephiroth is so eager, as though he’s never been allowed to just do whatever he wants and let his curiosity lead him. He is intensely focused as he inspects the books, but when he finds the scraps of paper in the desk drawer that constitute Cloud’s dream journal, he closes the drawer and moves onto the bathroom and steps into the shower to look at Cloud’s toiletries. Cloud crosses the room to watch him, fascinated; had Sephiroth never been in a place like this? He said he was a “lab rat,” but… he looks older than Cloud. Had he really never been in someone’s house in his entire life? Had he just spent his life in some horrible Shinra cage? 

He pushes the thought out of his mind before the panic sets in.

Sephiroth reads the back of the shampoo bottle, sets it down exactly where it was, and picks up the shower gel. His brows knit in concentration, and Cloud is shocked when he glances at the open window and sees that it’s dark outside. _Really_ dark. His PHS says it’s nearly six o’clock, and somehow the day is nearly gone. _Where did the time go?! What have I done all day?_

Watch Sephiroth read shampoo labels and go shopping, apparently.

At some point, Sephiroth squats down the tile to check out the dusty, underused cleaning supplies under Cloud’s sink, and Cloud hears Sephiroth’s stomach grumbling as he watches, sitting on the floor against the end of his bed.

“What was that noise?” Sephiroth asks, turning. He has a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand and a package of cotton balls in the other. His face is open and curious, as if he really doesn’t know. 

“Um… that was you.” _Guess it’s been a long time since he’s eaten like he has at Seventh Heaven. What the hell happened to this guy? Doesn’t he remember what being hungry feels like?_ “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

His stomach churns in sympathy; he can remember missions, or being on the run from something, so hungry he couldn’t feel it anymore. He just felt _empty_ , he felt like a burden to _what was his name again_ —

Sephiroth glares down at his stomach as it rumbles _again_ , then hurriedly places the cotton balls and the alcohol back in the cabinet. “I should go. You’ve taken care of me all day.”

“If you want to stay, I can make you the Cloud Special for dinner.”

_Please, Gaia, let me die right here, right now. What am I even saying._

Sephiroth pushes himself off the ground and shakes out his legs. “I don’t know what that is, but I’d love to try it. Sounds lovely.”

The Cloud Special is _not_ lovely, Cloud knows, because there is not much that is lovely about nearly-expired ramen in stale-tasting filtered water with hot sauce to mask the taste, but by the time they’re sitting on the floor with an old newspaper between them as a makeshift picnic blanket, he doesn’t regret saying it. If Sephiroth thinks the Cloud Special is anything less than spectacular, he doesn’t show it, and he slurps his noodles with aplomb, struggling to decide between chewing and keeping his mouth open a little to cool it down. If it were anyone, _anyone_ else, Cloud would hate it, would be jealous of the unabashed pleasure and curiosity in how Sephiroth has just settled into his room. How can anyone be so lacking in self-consciousness? He couldn’t ever dare, can’t remember being around any friends in this way, just letting himself relish a moment for the sake of it. Even at Seventh Heaven, when he hangs out with the AVALANCHE crew, he feels his body stiffen as he tries to follow along, and he aches when he trudges home alone, his muscles sore from the pain of holding himself together. But Sephiroth isn’t like that. He isn’t like him at all. 

“Spicy!” Sephiroth garbles, mouth still half-full as he tries to talk and cool his mouth down at the same time. “I’ve never really had food like this.”

_He’s so lovely._

Cloud blows on his noodles and enjoys this never-ending moment, the quickly vanishing day. It’s over too fast, it’s all happening right away, and he wonders when Sephiroth will leave Sector Seven.

_Get a hold of yourself. You don’t know this man. He isn’t going to save you from yourself and once he really sees you he won’t like you anymore. Come on, Strife, get it the fuck together._

Even his own nagging inner monologue can’t hold him back from finding joy in the simple quiet of eating with someone else, and he savors it. When Sephiroth finishes the last of his soup, Cloud is up before he even realizes it, heating up more water and tearing open a new container. “You’re still hungry.”

The slow smile that spreads across Sephiroth’s face is sweeter than anything Cloud’s ever seen, he thinks—except for maybe the flush rapidly spreading across his nose and cheeks, probably brought on by the spice. 

Cloud clicks on the TV for Sephiroth before he goes to take a shower and shows him how to work the remote. He holds back his surprise when Sephiroth seems confused about it, and before he shuts the bathroom door, he can see Sephiroth run his fingers over the buttons and the body of the remote control. Sephiroth's tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth as he fights to pop open the battery panel. Cloud leaves him to it.

When he emerges, finally in clean clothes and feeling a little bit more human, the ramen cups— _shit, I forgot_ —have already been rinsed and placed in the sink, and Sephiroth has even cleaned their forks and wiped down the counter of the little kitchenette in the corner. Sephiroth is sitting on the floor, watching some kind of soap opera. He leans against the side of the bed and his eyes are wide as the actors discuss amnesia and something about betrayal and love. Sephiroth is transfixed, and he waves Cloud over.

“Have you seen this before? It’s _amazing_.”

Before Cloud can even respond, his feet carry him over, and Sephiroth yanks him down by the wrist so he sits next to him, and he hushes Cloud. “You really need to watch this.”

_Do I?_

As far as he can tell, this is the kind of show that some of the ladies in Nibelheim wealthy enough to own TVs might watch. And maybe Jessie, who seems very up-to-date on these things. But he’s never watched it before, and he feels totally lost. Sephiroth hunches over his knees and holds his legs tight to his chest, staring at the TV, blinking as little as possible, and when one of the makeup-covered actors reveals that he is _actually_ the evil twin of the hero and that his brother is in the hospital with amnesia and will never return to his former self, Sephiroth gasps. The episode ends with the evil twin riding off on his armored chocobo, leaving the heroine cursing his name and vowing revenge for her ailing lover.

Cloud wants to roll his eyes, but when the next episode starts, Sephiroth looks over at him with this giddy grin, as if to ask, _can I?_ _Please?_ Cloud just shrugs, and he leans back against the bed. His eyes, for some reason, just won't be rolled. He can't be frustrated.

Before long, he can feel his eyes sliding shut, because this woman’s discovery that she is _actually_ the long-lost heir to some kind of vast magical legacy does not compel him like it does Sephiroth. Pretty soon, his head jerks up from his shoulder, and it comes to him again—

_Did you have a nice day, my son?_

He grinds the heel of his palm against his eyes, muttering a little under his breath, but it snaps Sephiroth out of his reverie. He turns away from the hair tonic commercial—apparently less interesting than _The Malefactors of Midgar_ —and looks down at Cloud, smiling sheepishly. 

“I overstayed my welcome, didn’t I?”

“No, no,” he replies, pressing his fingers against his temples and failing to stifle a yawn. “Just a little tired.”

“Episode’s about to end, I think. Then it’s the news. So I’ll go, I promise. But, get this, she dug up some rare materia and summoned a _god_ , who might tell her something important. Or grant wishes. I don’t know. I have to find a way to watch the next one…” He trails off when he sees Cloud’s eyes start to drift shut again and his head slumps forward. “You took such good care of me, didn’t you?”

Cloud can hear Sephiroth’s voice from far away, like he’s underwater, but the long day, the long _days_ , have finally caught up with him, and he’s vaguely aware of Sephiroth standing over him and lifting him up like a doll before carefully placing him in the bed. Sephiroth turns down the volume on the TV and settles in to watch the last part of his show from his spot on the floor while Cloud fights to stay awake, but soon he feels Sephiroth pull the blanket over his shoulder, hears the TV switch off, and he struggles to mumble, “Knock if you need anything.”

“See you in the morning, Cloud.” A cool hand presses against his scabbed cheek, smooths his hair back. It’s so pleasant it has to be a fantasy. It just _can’t_ be real.

_You deserved a nice day._

When he can tell the light is turned off and hears the door close, he can’t fight it any longer, so he slips into the first dreamless sleep he can remember in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm going to speed up the timeline after this episode and you will finally meet Tifa's "wife." I just ... couldn't help myself. Thank you for all of your kindness, support, and patience! Seeing the kudos and views and comments come in is really humbling and I appreciate every single one of you.
> 
> I took some liberties with the design of their apartments. Sorry!!


	8. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Sephiroth settle into a routine. Cloud tries to be happy.
> 
> CW: vomiting, self-injury

He suspects he’s in for a scolding when he arrives at Seventh Heaven practically dripping in hedgehog pie blood. He’s done his best to wipe off the worst of it, and his clothes are dark enough that he guesses it can pass for sweat. Really dark sweat.

“No way, Cloud,” Tifa says from behind the bar, shaking her head. “You want lunch, you’d better clean yourself up. At least take the gloves off and wash your hands. Gotta keep the health inspectors happy, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all the thanks I get? They were vicious today!” he replies, laughing a little, but he doesn’t sit down just yet. He leans against the bar and watches her step into the back office. The bar isn’t officially open today, so she’s using the afternoon to catch up on the bookkeeping and attend some meetings downstairs; he’s here out of habit, but during the past few weeks, he’s been taking more of these odd jobs around the neighborhood rather than working at the bar. Barret calls him a merc, but that makes it sound like he’s off fighting some war somewhere, a blade for hire. Instead, it all feels like glorified pest control, scouting the edges of the neighborhood for mako-deformed monsters, escorting people who need protection on their way to and from things. Glorified exterminator or not, he can’t complain. It pays better than most other jobs down here, and he’s found himself spending more these days. Just a few weeks ago, he kept most of his gil stuffed under his mattress and it was rare to have to lift it up and fish out a bill.

Now, he has a new hobby: buying things for Sephiroth, who seems to have taken his place at the bar. The ribbon was the first of it, but when he catches Sephiroth eyeing a surprisingly new-looking pair of boots at the thrift shop, he goes back to buy them. A little thrill runs through his body as he hands over the money, but he doesn’t take the boots to Sephiroth right away. Instead, he puts them under his bed and waits for the right time, whenever that might be: a reason, or an occasion. He’s not sure.

Even now, standing at the bar, he wants to buy Sephiroth lunch. It is a natural extension of needing to eat: if he needs to eat, so does Sephiroth, and if he can pay for it, why not? Tifa has been keeping Sephiroth busy, and he has a feeling that Sephiroth is actually in the kitchen now, so there’s nothing to pay for, but all the same, he wants to pay for it, wants to watch Sephiroth eat, wants everyone in the world to know it’s his doing, wants—

_To control them all, that’s your birthright. The Planet is ours for the taking. They’re puppets; they are NOTHING compared to us. Inferior scum._

He’s lucky he’s alone; to fight off the voice, that same voice that’s been plaguing him more and more since he came to Midgar, he clasps his hands to his head, squeezing. Resisting it is more painful than anything he can remember and even more painful than the things he knows he’s forgotten, and he wonders if it wouldn’t hurt so much if he just listened, just let it— _her_ —say what it wants, did any of those skills the therapist had tried to teach him, even engaged with it. But the voice is firm, one day kind and another day cruel, and although the midday quiet of Seventh Heaven would ordinarily feel lovely, he slumps against the bar, his body convulsing.

“Stop, please,” he whimpers, and as if the voice has to think about it, after a few moments, the pressure on his mind releases. Catching his breath, he finally collapses onto the stool, despite Tifa’s request for a bit of cleanliness, and tries to think about more pleasant things. Like how pretty Sephiroth looks with his hair tied back.

The green ribbon—which adorns Sephiroth’s hair more often than not these days—had been so embarrassing, so honest, and Sephiroth’s open, innocent face, his radiant smile, had hit him harder than almost any of his other humiliations. It had felt good, but in the way that admitting his psychological problems had felt good: he hated himself for it, but he wasn’t alone in it. If the nerve was exposed, at least someone else would know. Being affectionate, doing things for something other than money or obligation, it all felt complicated. It was a door to the rest of him, the fucked-up parts he couldn’t even share. What the voices told him when he was all alone, in the darkest hours of the night.

 _You should kill them._ _Those filthy humans are nothing but a burden to you, my son_.

He’s avoided going back to the therapist because he can’t bear to lie anymore.

“ _Do the voices ever tell you to do things?”_

_“Uh, what? No.”_

_“Tell you to do things you don’t want to do?”_

_“I said no! Are you listening to me at all? Why won't you believe me?”_

_“I just want to know what the voices are saying. It could help to talk about it.”_

_“They just… talk to me, that’s all. It’s annoying, but they’re not in charge of me.”_

_“Okay. Why don’t you give me some examples, so I can understand?”_

_So human. So ignorant. They don’t understand us._

_“We’ve been through this before, doc. Is our time up yet? I need to go help Tifa back at the bar.”_

_“You’re right. Let’s pick it up next week, okay? Thank you for coming in today, Cloud.”_

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, slouched over the bar, but when Sephiroth waltzes in from the kitchen, humming a tune, Cloud is picking dried globs of hedgehog pie blood from his sweater and reflecting on that last session. Definitely the last session—no way he’s going back. At the sight of Sephiroth in an apron, with his messy bangs framing his face and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Cloud immediately stops fidgeting and tries to sit up straighter.

“Well, hi,” he manages, clasping his hands together and suddenly aware of the splotches of blood on his forearms as they rest on the bar.

“Hi yourself. Want to be my taste tester today? Tifa has had me trying some new recipes.”

Sephiroth’s previous kitchen experiments have been… less than successful. Cloud had witnessed Sephiroth’s first introduction to the kitchen by accident; he had just come into the bar to drop off a delivery when he heard something about the “Cloud Special” coming from the kitchen, followed by some mumbling and Tifa’s hysterical laughter. She had burst out into the bar, nearly doubled over, with tears streaming from her eyes, all because Sephiroth had asked to learn how to cook so he could make the Cloud Special. Cloud had stayed, his ears beet red, and the ensuing discussion about how to boil water and what counts as cooking had taken longer than he thought possible. Even longer was Tifa’s follow-up lecture about the importance of a complete diet to help Sephiroth’s recovery from his weakened state.

“No Cloud Special today, then?” he quips.

“I’m afraid not. She doesn’t have our sophisticated palate, sadly, but I guess I’m a working man now, so I have to give the people what they want. And what they want, apparently, is breakfast food at all times of day.”

Brunch was an upper-plate thing, of course, but coffee and French toast were just what the beleaguered people of Sector Seven might want after a long day of survival, so Tifa had put Sephiroth to work.

Sephiroth is chuckling to himself when he brings out a tray full of waffles, fruit and a container of syrup. “Breakfast food. I didn’t even know you ate different things at different times of the day. Even funnier that it would be special or desirable to eat it at another time.”

 _We used to eat the same slop all the time, too. We… When we were awake, that is. When—_

“Hope you’re hungry, Cloud.” Sephiroth places the tray in front of him and delicately straightens the cutlery so that everything is exactly parallel, lined up just right. He’s even brought out a cloth napkin instead of the usual paper, which makes Cloud more conscious than ever of the traces of monster gunk all over him. From his episode earlier, he worries it’s even in his hair, but he has more pressing matters to attend to: the powdered sugar-dusted waffles actually look… _good_. They’re not burned, they’re fluffy, and they smell faintly of cinnamon. From what he can tell, the fruit has to be imported—it doesn’t look like it was ever frozen, and nothing that good could have possibly grown in Midgar. Expensive and definitely _not_ on the normal menu.

Sephiroth crosses his arms and studies Cloud as he picks up the fork. Rather than just spearing the entire waffle with the fork as he would if he were alone, he shifts the fork over and picks up the knife, cutting the waffle as politely as he can. It’s still warm, fresh from the iron, and even the syrup in its little cup is warm. Over the last few weeks, he’s eaten salad with rotten vegetables (because Sephiroth had apparently grown so accustomed to eating rotten food he didn’t notice), a mushroom omelet with quite a few bits of eggshell suspended in it (because Sephiroth had never cracked an egg), and even, on one particularly troubling occasion, half a plate of cookies that might have been a success had Sephiroth not mixed up the sugar and the salt. Cloud had only kept eating out of politeness, out of a desire to see Sephiroth smile, but he can hardly be blamed now for being a little suspicious of the waffles. As he picks up the first bite, he’s sure he’ll eat the whole thing no matter what, but he steels himself anyway.

And they’re perfect. He can’t remember the last time he ate waffles. Maybe back in Nibelheim. Maybe… with his mother. _Mother?_ It’s fuzzy, the memory is just a flicker in his mind, just the glow of blue (green?) eyes above him, but as he chews, he doesn’t notice the tear rolling down his cheek.

“Is it that bad?” Sephiroth grimaces. “Did I use the wrong ingredients again? I checked everything twice. I made labels.”

Cloud shakes his head and starts shoving more food in his mouth, abandoning politeness as he rubs his eye with the back of one gloved hand. “No, it’s good. It’s _great_ , actually. Wow.”

Sephiroth lets out a huge sigh and the tension escapes from his body. He flops onto the barstool next to Cloud, folds his arms, and rests his head on them, looking up at Cloud as he continues to eat. “You’re surprised, aren’t you? So am I. But I did it this time. I can officially cook one thing.”

_Even a human can be useful. I’ll allow you that._

He eats so quickly he almost chokes on it, and he’s so focused on eating that he barely notices Sephiroth’s hand rubbing gentle circles on his back.

“Don’t eat too fast, Stormcloud. I’m just glad you like it. Guess you really were hungry.”

When he looks down, the plate is empty, and Sephiroth’s hand is gone. (He notices _that_.) They sit like that for a while: Sephiroth asks how Cloud is doing, how his work went, and Cloud finds it easier to talk about killing than to answer that first question. _How am I doing? I’m going insane._ But Sephiroth is patient and curious, and if he is disgusted by the mechanics of monster hunting, he doesn’t show it at all. Cloud worried once that he might not like to hear, after Sephiroth had explained his distaste for meat, but he seems to understand that Cloud is keeping people safe, and his eyes are so, so bright, so calm, that Cloud can lose himself in just talking and being heard. The voices are either encouraging or quiet when he fights, and he much prefers the rush of blood in his ears and even the shrieks of the monsters as he tears through them to the voices—the _voice_. Talking about the fighting puts him back in it, and he feels clarity as he looks into Sephiroth’s eyes.

Sometimes, Cloud thinks, it’s easy to be happy. If happiness is just waffles and having someone appreciate you and appreciating them back, then why is he so filled with dread all the time? What’s all the fuss? Why does simply existing feel like such a burden? He’s figured it out, so what’s the problem? _I’m the problem. Just me._

It becomes a routine: Cloud does his odd jobs around the neighborhood or for AVALANCHE, and he and Sephiroth meet for lunch and often dinner. His love for soap operas only growns, and while he had asked Jessie to help him find used box sets of the previous three seasons of _The Malefactors of Midgar_ (whereupon she had, much to Cloud’s disappointment, lent him quite a few other series, including _Chocobo Law, Mideel M.D.,_ and _Real_ _Housewives of Junon_ ), which meant he was usually in Cloud’s room in the evening, discussing his convoluted fan theories out loud. Something about reincarnation, or something about the real source of a mysterious materia fortune, and high-powered lawyers who seemed to spend more time making out with each other than actually doing any work. Cloud finds that doesn’t mind listening, and although he’s pretty sure the reincarnation thing is just an inelegant way to fill a plot hole, he even finds himself joining in.

But Sephiroth’s love for theorizing does not end with low-brow TV shows. When he isn’t helping Tifa with the bar, he’s often perched at a table in Seventh Heaven with a stack of books and old newspapers. “I don’t know what brought me to Sector Seven. I felt drawn here, but maybe I can figure out why. Maybe it’s related to the reactors, or Shinra, or something, but there must be answers. And with all the monsters you see, it all has to come back to the mako. I will figure it all out.”

Pretty soon, he has a surprisingly large collection of books on world history, organic chemistry, the evolution of animals in the Midgar region, biology textbooks, even President Shinra’s autobiography—which Barret nearly threw out the window when he first saw it on the table at Seventh Heaven. “It’s for research,” Sephiroth had explained, hanging his head.

“Know your enemy, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Alright, I can get behind that. We could use some brains in this operation, after all.”

When he reads, with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, he turns the pages at an alarming rate, and when Cloud asks him if he’s actually reading it or just thumbing through, he flips it open to an earlier page, hands the book to Cloud and starts reciting it from memory. He even recalls a typo. Sephiroth has been locked away from the world for his whole life, Cloud believes, but his mind seems to have compensated for it. There is so much he doesn’t know—his birthday, where he was born, why the Cloud Special does not count as real cooking, how to use a PHS, how many sectors there are in Midgar, what alcohol tastes like—but he is a quick study.

It must be boring for him, Cloud worries, when he watches Sephiroth help Marlene practice her handwriting and imitates animal sounds on command. But it’s sweet, and Cloud isn’t bored by watching it as he dries some glasses behind the bar. It feels like what he imagines life should be, if he wasn’t constantly struggling with his mind, if life down here didn’t seem so precarious. (Sephiroth does a surprisingly good impression of a chocobo.)

More often than before, Cloud finds himself waking up in the middle of the night. He doesn’t exactly have nightmares, but he is awake, and the voice is more persistent than ever, which might be worth it. He can’t even understand it sometimes, when the voice is screeching inside his head, but the images he sees in his mind are unspeakable. _What kind of SOLDIER is afraid of a little blood and guts? Come on._ But he sees fires, hears the screams of dying people, can even smell the ash, the burned flesh, feel his lips moving in the vision as if he’s speaking. But he can’t hear it over the sound of the people’s shrieks and the crackling of the fires. He almost doesn’t make it to the toilet before he throws up his dinner—the dinner Sephiroth had cooked. After a few dizzying moments on the floor, he swishes some water around his mouth, wipes away his tears, and staggers back to bed, but his limbs feel like rubber.

The next few nights are surprisingly calm, and he even falls asleep on Sephiroth’s shoulder during an impromptu _Chocobo Legal_ marathon. When Cloud startles awake at three in the morning to find the DVD menu still playing the theme song on loop and Sephiroth lightly snoring, he’s sorry that Sephiroth wakes up soon too and returns to his own room with a sheepish smile. Cloud’s mouth feels like it’s filled with ash, paralyzed in fear, and he can’t say what he wants to say. He’s so angry with himself he can almost smell the fires that the voice had shown him, and he nearly presses a hole through the remote when he turns the TV off.

_Come back. Stay with me. I’m so lonely._

A few nights later, after having a few beers with the AVALANCHE crew—and seltzer for Sephiroth—he jolts awake to find his body curled against the wall, like he’s trying to escape, or hide from something. His dream is forgotten before he can even open his eyes, but the fear isn’t gone. Sephiroth was right. Maybe this room _is_ a cage, or it’s his skin that feels like a cage, and he wants to claw it all off and escape whatever the hell it is that’s happening. He fists his hands though his hair, pressing down the voice, and he wonders desperately if he might hear Sephiroth’s breathing through the thick metal walls. His senses are enhanced, but even he isn’t sharp enough to hear something so quiet against the hum of the city.

_Why do I want to hear his breathing anyway? Stop being creepy. Go back to sleep._

_Whatever you want should be yours, my son. Why shouldn’t the whole Planet belong to you?_

“Shut _UP_!” he roars, before slamming his forehead into the wall to drown it all out. The pain blooms through his skull, but it’s better than the pain of that _thing_ , that horrible part of himself that is so insistent, so cruel, so _loud_.

 _I just want to be happy_ , he thinks, curling into a ball and cradling his head in his hands. _I’m trying._

When Sephiroth knocks at the door a minute later, he doesn’t answer.

“Cloud? Are you alright?”

He doesn’t say anything, just screams into the pillow. Eventually he can hear Sephiroth sigh outside the door, and part of him wants Sephiroth to come in, to hold him, to sit with him until it stops, but after a few minutes, Sephiroth says, “Cloud? I’m going back to bed, but please knock if you need me.” 

He doesn’t sleep again that night.

The next morning, he is surprised to find that his head doesn’t hurt any more than it usually does, but after he washes his face, he leans over the sink and sees something strange in the mirror. A trick of the light. He should check the bulb in the bathroom when his hands aren’t wet. Just another thing to do. His eyes are _blue_ , not _green_. Right? Or is it the other way around? They’ve always been tinged with the mako, at least since— _then_ — No. He’s just tired, and it passes when he rubs at his eyes and washes his face. Hearing things is bad enough, but he’s never seen things that aren’t real. Visions are one thing, voices are just a part of life, but something in the real world like this? No, it’s not possible. He knows the difference. His fingers run over the lines of his face. _It’s just me._

He jumps when he hears the knock at the door, the glances back at the mirror to look at his eyes again. _My eyes are blue. They have always been blue. Everything is fine._

“Cloud? It’s almost eleven. Do you still want to go to the library?”

 _Shit._ He yanks a shirt over his head and smooths the frizz out of his hair. “Coming!”

Framed in the strange artificial under-plate light, Sephiroth looks like an angel when Cloud opens the door.

 _Does he have dimples? He does._ _How have I not noticed that before?_

Half of his hair is gathered in a ponytail, and the rest falls around his shoulders like a silver cape. He’s wearing the heavy coat Cloud bought for him, and his cheeks are flushed. Under one arm, he has a stack of books to return, and in the other hand, he holds out a paper cup of coffee. Cloud just stares at him until Sephiroth says, “It’s for you. Thought you could use a little caffeine today.”

He mumbles his thanks before he takes a sip; was Sephiroth worried? Is it that obvious?

“Sorry if I woke you up. Weird dream.”

“Not at all. Don’t worry about it.”

The coffee is just the way he likes it: light on the coffee, heavy on the milk and sugar. When they make it to the bottom of the stairs and set off for the train station at a leisurely pace, Sephiroth loops his free arm through the crook of Cloud’s elbow, and even in the biting winter wind, Cloud doesn’t feel cold at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta as usual. Thank you for all of your kind comments and support and kudos and apologies for any errors/typos in this chapter, which was written mostly in one sitting this afternoon. I have a term paper due tomorrow evening, so please cross your fingers that I actually get it done on time rather than write more of this self-indulgent mess. If you see this the day it’s posted, please feel free to comment and tell me to go write the damn paper.
> 
> Once the semester is over I hope to update more frequently. Just a few more weeks to go! Good luck to all my fellow students out there.


	9. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tifa's wife arrives! Cloud feels awkward and eventually makes a bargain with a certain someone.
> 
> CW: mentions of self-harm, panic attacks, medical torture/trauma

A few days after their trip to the library, when he arrives at Seventh Heaven in the early afternoon, he wonders when Sephiroth will be finished with all of the books and asking when they could go back.

While the library itself had been pleasant enough, the journey through the inter-plate train tunnel was stressful for Sephiroth—“too small, like a cage.” Once they made it to their stop, it took Sephiroth the better part of an hour to peel himself off of the bench outside the station and make his way down the street with Cloud’s hand on his upper arm. This was the most anxious Cloud had seen Sephiroth since he had first arrived in Sector Seven all those weeks ago, and when he caught some passersby staring at Sephiroth, who had tucked his head between his knees and was breathing heavily as Cloud rubbed his shoulders, he found that he had to hold himself back from leaping up and shouting at them; he wanted nothing more than to—

_Rip out their throats! Those disgusting humans!_

Eventually, the voice quieted, and Sephiroth was able to stand, and they went on their way. On the ride back to the slums, Sephiroth gripped so tightly on the Shinra history books in his lap that Cloud thought he might rip them in half. But when they pulled into the station and exited the train, Sephiroth swept him into a hug and asked, “Will you come with me next time?”

“Next time?”

“To return the books. And get new ones. I can do it if you come with me. Really, I can.”

He couldn’t say no.

So today, as he pushes the door open and sets the buster sword against the wall, he expects to see Sephiroth hunched over one of the books, pressing his pen to his lips, flicking his eyes back and forth at an ungodly speed. 

He can hear Tifa’s giggles coming from the kitchen, but Sephiroth isn’t there. Most of the books have been set away to one side on Sephiroth’s table, and the notebooks are closed. Instead, Sephiroth is sitting with a brown-haired stranger at another table, holding a chipped mug in his hands and laughing. There is a fluffy bouquet of yellow flowers on the table between them and he can smell the fragrance from across the room. First, Cloud notices the lovely way the corners of Sephiroth’s eyes wrinkle as he laughs, the gentle shake of his shoulders. Second, he sees the flower tucked behind Sephiroth’s ear, a shock of color in winter, and beautifully warm against Sephiroth’s complexion. Then, he notices the stranger’s hand, which presses lightly on Sephiroth’s forearm.

_Who the hell are you? How dare—_

He clears his throat, but he’s not sure if it’s to get their attention or to stop himself from following that train of thought, which might be his, or might be from the voice. _I can't even tell. Fuck._

They turn towards him, and she hops off her stool and walks forward, sticking her hand out towards Cloud.

“You must be Cloud, right? I’m so glad to finally meet you!” Her voice is bright, and her green eyes are so soft he wonders how he could’ve felt angry, how he could’ve possibly taken such a quick dislike to her.

“Uh huh,” he says, gently shaking her hand. Even under his glove, it’s warm—and firm. She is slender but strong, and in another life, Cloud wonders if he wouldn’t have fallen for her on sight. Her smile is incessant, contagious, and he feels calmer than he’s felt in months. Years, even. Anything he can remember. It’s terrifying, but the terror doesn’t strike him; only the calm remains.

“And I’m Aerith!”

Above her shoulder, he can see Sephiroth mouth the words, _the wife_ before giving him a wink.

Before Aerith even lets go of his hand, he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks, and he pulls away to wipe off some imaginary dust on his pants before joining them at the table. When he sits, Aerith is reaching out to tuck another yellow flower under the strap of one of his suspenders. Her bracelets jangle against his chest and as much as he wants to shrink away from the contact, he doesn’t.

 _We match_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the blush anymore.

“A little gift for you! Tifa always likes it when I surprise her with flowers since you can’t find them in Sector Seven, or anywhere in Midgar, so I thought if I was stopping by, I should bring some for everyone. As a peace offering.”

“The peace treaty is ready to be signed,” Sephiroth says, brushing the flower behind his ear with his fingertips, as if he’s afraid to hurt the petals. But like Aerith, with the soft sheen of dirt and the visible repeated mendings of her clothes, they seem strong.

“Oh, Aerith—tell Cloud what the flowers mean.”

Cloud cocks his head. _Flowers have meanings?_ Must be some sort of fancy thing, but he’d never really thought much about flowers. The smell of the spring blossoms in Nibelheim, the smattering of wildflowers he’d gather for his m—

_Who?_

“Yes, it’s very important. Flowers have a language, like poetry. Just a few flowers can tell a whole story to someone, whether you realize it or not. These flowers, for example, mean ‘reunion.’”

_Reunion. Where have I heard that before?_

“—which, as I was saying, is very fitting. Did you know that Aerith and I actually—”

 _Reunion_ , that was what someone had said all those years ago. Who was it? “ _Reunion theory.” And I will prove my theory correct. Within time, the specimen will begin to seek out his brothers and sisters who share the cells. Well, if he’s not as weak as that horrible, useless subject we had in here last time. A disappointment. But Specimen C is not like the others. He’s lasted much, much longer than_ that _fool_ _. Oh, is he awake? Cut it out, my specimen. Give him another sedative and please be sure to double the dosage from last time. I don’t like listening to him during the procedures._

_Stop, stop, stop, I’ll do anything, it really hurts, can’t you let me go home, I will never tell anyone, please— Reunion? What are you— gods, no, st—_

“Which is how we have apparently been rivals for a very long time,” Sephiroth concluded, turning to face Cloud.

Without even realizing it, Cloud had gathered the bouquet of flowers in his hands and was staring down at them, stroking the powdery soft petals as delicately as he can; his face is slack, his eyes completely empty, and he only notices that they’ve been talking when Sephiroth puts his hands over Cloud’s.

“Hey there. You still with us? You’re missing _quite_ the story.”

“Straight out of _Malefactors of Midgar_ , actually,” chimed in Aerith as she fluffed the flowers a little and cocked her head to peer up at Cloud’s downturned expression. “We’ve already met online! And we had no idea!”

“Well, Aerith, is that accurate?” Sephiroth muses. “Jessie made an account for me on MalefactorsMarket because she liked my theories, but ‘SilverFoxx777’ is Jessie’s creation, not mine! I am _not_ SilverFoxx777. And I only did that because Cloud always agrees with my theories and I needed some more intellectual debate to challenge my hypotheses. The materia _is_ a time traveling portal and Rosa has reclaimed her heart, so—”

“Time travel is a bit cliché, but it’s not about _time travel_ , Sephiroth. It’s about different linear realities. They are starting to bleed over, but Rosa will still have one fate, to save all of Gaia. I’m _telling_ you, the romance storyline is just a distraction from her journey too. They have to fill the episodes with something to make it last a whole season. And Cyril _definitely_ died in the season five finale. He isn’t coming back.”

Cloud only peels his hands off the flowers when Sephiroth pries his fingers apart, strokes a few long fingers across Cloud’s palms, and he winces when he sees a few of the petals limp and bruised. _Reunion_. _It doesn’t have to mean anything._

“So you see, we’ve been friends for a little while.” Sephiroth is speaking to them both, but he only has eyes for Cloud, who feels like he is drifting somewhere far away; their conversation reaches his ears, but he isn’t part of it right now.

_Reunion?_

_They’ll all be yours, my son._

“ _Frenemies_ ,” Aerith corrects, giggling. “Cloud, you look like you could use some lunch. And Sephiroth, you should make your own account instead of waiting for Jessie to post your ramblings for you. You’re too young to be a ‘silver fox’ but from what Tifa tells me, I am _not_ surprised Jessie did that.”

“Wait, a... silver fox? It doesn't mean a fox with silver fur?” Sephiroth asks, wide-eyed, and Aerith’s giggles draw something out of Cloud. The moment is gone, the fear is gone, replaced by the warmth of Sephiroth’s hands, Aerith’s curious face, the gentle slope of her cheekbones and the fall of her chestnut hair.

It’s easy to let go. _Or it’s easy to pretend_ , Cloud thinks as he laughs too. _What’s the difference?_

When Tifa finally saunters back into the room, Cloud watches with fascination as she drapes an arm over Aerith’s shoulder and draws her in for a soft kiss. He’s never seen Tifa like this, so unashamed, so open; she had kept Aerith a secret for so long, but the shine in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks suit her as she pulls away. Her fingers trace invisible patterns on Aerith’s shoulder and through the tendrils of her hair as she stands behind her girlfriend, grinning.

“So you’ve all met, I see.” Tifa’s voice is warmer than it sometimes is as she drapes herself over the back of Aerith’s chair and expertly sets down a tray of fresh steaming mugs in front of them. “A winter treat, but only because my…”

Aerith looks up at her girlfriend, and Cloud thinks he can see something devilish in Aerith. She’s sweetness and light, and her frame is slender, but she seems tall, even sitting while Tifa is standing.

“My _love_ ,” Tifa manages, “has decided to grace me today with her…”

Aerith flutters her eyelashes a little. There is something unspoken, something close, secret. Cloud isn’t jealous, not _really_ , but— _what is it like? To know someone like that and have them play along?_

“Her presence, which I… dearly missed.”

“Yes!” Aerith chirps before snatching up a mug and leaning into Tifa’s side. “Thank you, lovely.”

While he’s been watching this scene play out, Cloud realizes Sephiroth is still holding his hands and snatches them back suddenly to settle them in his lap. _What am I doing._ He just can’t keep track of it all: this new… friend? Tifa coming alive, and Sephiroth so radiant it hurts to look at him. _Reunion_.

 _How do couples become… couples?_ He wonders as the conversation finally picks up. _I don’t get it. I guess they don’t sit around being mentally broken losers like me_. It’s like watching a scene out of one of Sephiroth’s dramas, but it’s real, and it’s _Tifa_. _I guess they have to be brave and just say it. But is it really that easy?_

Try as he might, he can’t pry his eyes away from the casual, unspoken intimacy between Tifa and Aerith. Even in such an ordinary scene like this, sitting across the table from two friends— _yes, we’re all friends, aren’t we? They still call me a friend, but they don’t know_ —they are almost synchronized as one. When Tifa sets down the rest of the cocoa for the group, her fingers brush over Aerith’s again and trail up along her arm until they settle on Aerith’s shoulder.

_I could never. I have no idea how. What is wrong with me. It's so... effortless._

He drowns his thoughts with the scalding hot chocolate, almost relishing in the way it burns so much he can hardly taste it. (SOLDIER tastebuds will grow back anyway.)

“You didn’t say they were so _cute_ , Tifa,” she mutters behind the mug as Tifa leans in close. Cloud hears it anyway. “And I definitely see it.”

He can’t help himself. “See what?”

“Nothing!” they both blurt out, giggling, and all Cloud can do is look at Sephiroth, whose eyes are wide as they’ve ever been. A mystery, then, but definitely _something_. Some inside joke, something between lovers. He is always so paranoid, suspicious, even of Tifa—what do they say when they think he can’t hear? He knows it can’t be good, knows they’re all talking about his fragile psyche and his uncontrollable tics, but… maybe it’s just a secret. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s his insanity, bubbling to the surface, restrained only by the way the corners of Sephiroth’s lips curve into a smile as he blows on his hot cocoa.

After they tolerate enough of the impossibly long and bizarrely heated conversation about Aerith and Sephiroth's _Malefactors of Midgar_ theories, Tifa asks Cloud to help her do the dishes and organize the kitchen a bit with her before lunch. If Sephiroth has been working here today, he knows the kitchen is probably spotless, but it’s a welcome relief to pull away from the fervent debate about how souls, reincarnation, and some sort of pink materia work in the world of a television show.

“So what do you think?” she says once the door swings shut behind him.

“About…? Well, the pink materia is just a made-up plot device, so—”

“No, silly. About _Aerith_!” Her voice is almost a low whisper, and for a moment it feels like they’re back in Nibelheim, before everything went so terribly wrong. He can hardly remember it; it’s like trying to recall a story someone else told, but once, long ago, they were friends, or they were at least close. “Isn’t she great?”

“She is. I’m happy for you, Teef. I am.” It isn’t a lie, and it feels like a mercy to have something come out the way he means it. Without real jealousy, without judgment. He _is_ happy. Tifa’s been through Gaia-knows-what, and Aerith is something magical, a ray of light in Tifa’s life. He can tell. “Once, I think my mom thought, or … maybe even I thought, the way I think about you…”

The words aren’t coming out right anymore, but he rights himself as he rinses out a mug.

“I... admire you. You should be happy. And if she’s good for you, then I say go for it.”

For a moment, Tifa doesn’t say anything; when Cloud glances up from the sink, her eyes are shimmering, and she presses her hand to Cloud’s shoulder. “It means a lot to hear that. You know I care what you think.”

“Plus, you’re pretty much married, so it’s a done deal, right?”

 _“Cloud!_ ” she gasps, blushing a darker shade of red than he’s ever seen on her. “Marlene really just— What’s gotten into you?”

He can’t help the smile creeping up his face. They _are_ his friends. He _can_ do this. He _can_ laugh and mean it, he _can_ play along. It isn’t pretend if you don’t have to work too hard at it, right?

Eventually she leaves the kitchen, but Cloud lingers, washing the cups a little more thoroughly than he needs to. The warm water feels nice on his hands, and from the sound of the sink and the chatter in the bar, it’s just enough to lull him into a moment away from the voice. From _her_. Without Tifa, he’d be something less than human. He’s sure of it. She was the one who had found him all those month ago, wandering around the train station in a tattered, bloodied uniform, his brain swollen with a horrible ringing sound so deep he couldn’t vomit it out no matter how many times he’d tried, couldn’t distract from it but smashing his skull into a brick wall in an alley when he thought nobody was looking. Just your average slum-dweller gone mad. But her touch on his dirt-caked arm had been gentle, and when he had first tensed and his eyes settled on her face, he felt safety in a way he had’t felt since… something. A long time ago, the gentle embrace of blood and kin, the smell of winter, _real_ winter, not this fake Midgar excuse for a season. The warmth of a fire on Midwinter’s Eve, when it was just him and Ma—

_No, Mother. That’s right. Mother and I. On that snowy Midwinter’s Eve, eating stewed wolf shoulder, molasses bread, sauerkraut from the cellar, and cider. A treat, because I wasn’t old enough then. But I was almost a man. Just the two of us being a family because who else would we ever need? The fire burns so warm that he’s sweating, but Mother says it’s a cold night, and she will always keep him safe and warm._

_Your mother is always right, my Cloud._

_Of course, Mother._

He snaps out of it when he realizes the water is nearly scalding his hands; callused as they are, a few more seconds of that and he’d be needing more than just a simple cure spell to reverse the damage.

That night, when he returns to his room, he tells Sephiroth he isn’t up to one of their TV marathons, but he will make it up to him soon.

“I just need some time to catch up on sleep. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I wouldn’t be good company. And you’ve got to rest up too if you still want to go back to the library tomorrow.”

_Who cares? You only need me. Just us, forever and ever._

“Of course, Cloud. Coffee’s on me tomorrow, then.” Sephiroth stands there for a moment longer, and his mouth briefly drops open as if he has something to say. He brushes the toe of his boot against the heel of the other, biting his lip. His breath hitches in his throat, but he nods after a moment and walks away. His “good night” drifts along the catwalk and Cloud hates himself more than he’s hated almost anything at all.

As he undresses for the night, he pulls the flower out from his suspenders and sets it on the rickety table. The soft fragrance seems amplified in this little room, but he feels a headache coming on as he fixes his gaze on it. He’s never had allergies before, but the flower seems wrong in here, trapped in all this metal, too bright to live down here like the rest of them.

_Do it. I know you want to._

Before he even knows what the hell he’s doing, he leaps across the small room and snatches it up. He gives it once last glance before he crushes it in his fist. It had been a delicate little thing, even with its firm petals, and with his enhanced strength, it is reduced to a nothing more than a crumpled, wilted mess. But he doesn’t stop there. He grates the petals against his palm, grinding them to into powdery shreds.

The headache doesn’t fade. In fact, it throbs louder than ever, and when he slumps onto the floor, the petals drop lifelessly beside him. The sweat courses over his skin like it so often does, and he can feel the invisible knives prying his skull apart, piercing the most secret parts of his mind. The despair is a sucking, gaping wound in his chest, pulling him under, swallowing him whole. It’s not real, it’s not _real,_ it’s not—

_I am very real. But you still don’t believe me._

This time, he answers back. His muttered curses and pleas have fallen on deaf ears, but inside his head, he can hear his own voice, shaky and more childlike than in reality, but it is _real_ , isn’t it? To make a bargain with the void, a demon—this isn’t just a fantasy anymore. _I should go back to therapy_ , he briefly ponders, but he focuses instead on his mental reply.

_Please, whoever you are, please help me. I can’t do this anymore._

_It hurts, doesn’t it? To disobey._

_Please, make it stop._ He is curled into a ball on the floor and he threads his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, scrapes his nails fruitlessly against his scalp.

_I can help you, child. All you ever had to do was ask. How could I deny you anything?_

_What do you want from me?_

The voice laughs. Her laugh is deep, but it isn’t cruel. This is the laugh of someone playing a game, all the times Biggs has crushed him at darts, but … if Biggs was betting something more than the next beer.

 _If you do as I say, it won’t hurt anymore. I promise._

_How can I trust you? It hurts… so fucking much._

_I’ll show you what I can do_.

And just like that, it doesn’t hurt anymore. In fact, it feels as though it had never hurt at all. Like the scars littering Cloud’s body were never there in the first place. Even from his pitiful position on the cold floor, he can tell his skin is clean and smooth; his ears don’t ring, and he isn’t seized by the violent urge to clear his head by hurting himself. There’s no bile rising in his throat, and even the air smells fresh, which he knows is impossible. Fresh like Mt. Nibel after the last of the snow has melted, like wet grass, the smell of a coming summer storm cresting over the ridge. His muscles thrum like they do after a hard workout and he feels stronger than ever, like he could rip Shinra Tower out from its foundation with his bare hands and hurl it across the Planet. Even the colors around him in his dim room shimmer more brightly; the faded blue of his blanket, the green and purple of the materia in his discarded bracer, the shining silver edge of the plate he can see from the cracked bathroom window.

And without so much as a word of warning, she takes it all right back. The pain comes crashing back into him and the world dims. It was a mirage, but… _she can do it_.

 _See? I can help you. But you must_ accept _my help first, my son._

 _I’m not your son._

_Are you not? Who took care of you? Who held you when you were sick as a child? Who held you when you cried? Who still looks after you after all these years?_

He ponders, but there isn’t enough room in his mind for fucking _pondering_. His skin is full to bursting, crawling with anxiety, and he manages to drag himself to the bathroom and haul himself into the shower, where he switches on the water and slumps against the slick wall still fully clothed. He misses the press of his mother’s hand on his back when he was wracked with a fever, the lilt of her voice singing the old Nibel songs, the gentle press of her fingers on his wounds after the neighborhood kids had gotten a hold of him again, beaten him mercilessly for daring to just _be_ —

The water eventually warms up, but he doesn’t come out until the water runs truly cold, and then he just flops against the tile, sopping wet and too limp to move. His eyes flutter as he struggles to stay above the surface, but it’s in vain. Only she can control it all.

_You can trust me, Cloud. What mother would lie to her son?_

_You’re not my mother._

_You will understand soon. We aren’t like them; that’s why I can talk to you from so far away. To my only son._

_So, what do you want from me?_

_Not yet. It isn’t time. We will begin soon. For now, just wait for me._

_I… I will. I promise._

His eyes drift shut and he stays like that, but as he falls asleep, the pain lifts a little; the fog clears. The floor isn’t so cold, is it? It isn’t so bad. _She_ is warm, _she_ won’t just leave him there.

When Sephiroth knocks at the door, Cloud jolts awake, somehow in bed and in clean pajamas, and he forces himself to hang up the wet clothes to dry instead of leave them in their limp pile next to the shower. _How did I get to the bed? Why don’t I remember anything?_ He dresses, slicks some hair cream through his unruly spikes but, to his surprise, his reflection in the mirror looks surprisingly… decent. There’s color in his cheeks, _real_ color, and his eyes look brighter, merrier. The hollow of his cheeks has filled slightly, and even the circles under his eyes have faded a little. His muscles feel stretched but ready for action, and his reflexes are so sharp he doesn’t realize he’s knocked over the tube of toothpaste until he catches it without even thinking. Before he opens the door, he hurriedly grabs the scattered flower shreds and buries them at the bottom of his trash can. It’s too odd. He can’t explain it himself, but _she_ had wanted it. And he had done it. But nobody should see. That had been a precious gift, so why the hell—

The door is open, so he can’t dwell on it. He just presses down the trash and wipes his hands on his pants before turning to face his friend. Standing there, Sephiroth is the image of perfection in Cloud’s eyes, holding the now-customary coffee in one hand and a pile of books under the other arm. “Cloud, you look…” He pauses, swallowing his words. “ _Great_. I mean, you look well-rested. You weren’t kidding. You really needed some sleep.”

“I suppose I did. And it was nice, you know? I was able to think through some things.”

Sephiroth hands him the coffee and smirks. “ _Malefactors_ theories, I hope?”

“You wish,” he snorts, playfully elbowing Sephiroth in the ribs; but Sephiroth smoothly takes his elbow and loops his arm through it, just like last time, like it’s a ritual. Without a second thought. “Just the things I’ve been thinking about. Shinra, and all that.”

Sephiroth nods, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. He knows: some things don’t need to be said out loud to be known.

“Wait, are you sure you’re going to be alright on the train? I know it was difficult last time.”

They set a leisurely pace as they walk towards the station, but Sephiroth shakes his head. In the gentle breeze, the ends of his hair tickle the sides of Cloud’s face, but Cloud makes no attempt to push them away. “I’m sure. I know I can do it. Without you, maybe not, but you kept me safe and showed me I could do it.”

“Okay.”

“If it weren’t for you, I couldn’t do any of it.” Sephiroth’s voice is quiet and he looks away from Cloud, but Cloud can see the small pull of a smile on Sephiroth's cheeks, even looking up at Sephiroth’s profile turned away. Cloud’s heart pounds in his ears, but he isn’t sure why. The voice seems content to let him have this day, this moment, and this role, so why is he feeling so… anxious? Is it really alright? Won’t she just bring the pain back if he misbehaves?

Unbidden, she returns, to offer her blessing.

_Don’t worry. I will tell you when it’s time. Go. Have your fun, my son._

He doesn’t need to ask for permission twice. He leans his head against Sephiroth’s shoulder and lets his heart do what it will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled to get this chapter out, but it's the last week of the semester, so I have an exams and lots of work to wrap up before I can finally relax. This didn't get nearly as much editing/review as I would like, so please point out any glaring errors.
> 
> Your comments and kudos and views mean the world to me. Just knowing that other people enjoy what I write has been a great source of comfort, and even a heart emoji lifts my spirits in a way I can't explain. I truly love these characters. I might not always write back right away, but I do try to get to it. If you are enjoying it, please let me know. I will find time to respond because you are the ones who keep me motivated to not just write random things at night after I take my sleeping pills but actually wrangle them into something legible and post them online.
> 
> At some point soon I will likely write some Sephiroth POV chapters. We've seen a lot of Cloud, but he may not be a very reliable narrator, as you can probably tell. Please let me know if you like this idea or if you'd like to stick with Cloud! Things are about to get a bit worse for our chocobo-haired hero, but I promise we are going somewhere sweet and happy. I've also been considering giving Tifa and Aerith their own romance fluffy one-shot or mini series situation on the side. I love them both so much and I absolutely love the idea of Tifa completely WHIPPED for Aerith. If you are interested... lmk.
> 
> Completely off topic: in my spare time between work and school, I've been playing the Limit Cut bosses in Kingdom Hearts III ReMind. If anyone has any tips for Dark Riku... tell me. I've tried everything but I keep screwing up on his combos and his DM. He is really "unstoppable" and what was my fun distraction from real life has now become a (failed) quest to beat Dark Riku and put that little brat in his place. Also looking for advice on Xemnas and Saïx but I might need to accept that those are lost causes. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, just know Dark Riku is horrible.


	10. The Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Sephiroth go for a run. Cloud has some intrusive thoughts.

“Are you completely sure about this?” Sephiroth quirks an eyebrow as he zips up the track jacket Cloud found for him and shivers a little. The sleeves are too short, and Cloud feels tempted to reach out and yank them down, to cover those too-thin wrists, to keep Sephiroth warm. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“I am. You’re tougher than you think.”

Maybe it’s a little too much, the false cheer he injects into his voice, but the killing and the exercise are just about the only way to keep the voice out of his head— _and my body_ —lately. Sephiroth has always eyed Cloud’s swords warily, seemed to give him these strange, sideways looks when Cloud comes back from a run, glistening in sweat, nerves afire, cheeks burning. When those green eyes look him up and down, it’s uncomfortable; is Sephiroth jealous? Envious of the ease with which Cloud pushes himself to exhaustion, the strength that’s half his, half Shinra’s? _Must be._ Regardless of what he may or may not remember, Cloud is _sure_ Sephiroth is mako-enhanced. Maybe not like a SOLDIER, and maybe he has no training, but his eyes speak of something powerful beneath the surface. That first night, he had maneuvered Cloud so effortlessly after the incident with the glass, and he seems to have no problem taking care of nearly all of Tifa’s deliveries these days, stacking huge boxes of flour and beer and lifting them up like they’re nothing.

_He just doesn’t realize how much better he’s doing._

“I know, but that’s different. This is…” Sephiroth looks at Cloud, then down at his secondhand running shoes. “I don’t think I’ve ever gone running just for the sake of it. And we haven’t eaten any breakfast yet.”

Cloud laughs a little as he swings his arms and relishes in the feeling of the muscles warming up under the goosebumps; he can’t wait for the feeling of sweating in the cold air, lungs gasping, the voice _gone_. “We’ll eat plenty when you’re done. Let’s go.”

And with that, he’s off. Not to a blistering start; he knows his usual pace would leave Sephiroth in the dust, but he jogs backwards and watches the confused, wide-eyed expression on Sephiroth’s face. “Try to keep up!” He turns forward and grins.

They’re going to keep to a short route around Sector Seven; any further and he would’ve had to bring his sword, would’ve had to worry about Sephiroth’s safety with the monsters. He’s spent a few days mapping it out in his head. It’s not fantasizing, it’s just good planning—or at least that’s what he had told himself last night when he couldn’t sleep, wondering how Sephiroth would tie his hair back when the moment finally came.

_Why do you care so much about him?_

_Go away. I don’t have time for you right now._

_Is that any way to speak to your mother?_

_Go—_

_I can give you everything you want, make the worst things go away. But—_

_AWAY—_

_You have to listen. Who else would do this for you? Who else—_

_Fuck—_

_—would keep you company? How will you make Shinra pay? On you own?_

_Off—_

_If not for you, what about him? You care. I can help you protect him. I can—_

He had squeezed the pillow against his face and around his ears until she had finally stopped her rambling. _No, not “her.” It’s not a “her.” It’s an… “it.” Maybe I should go back to therapy._

When the alarm clock finally rang at six a.m., he hadn’t slept at all. He left it on for just a moment, just until he could hear some shuffling and groaning from next door. _His hearing is better than a normal person’s, too._

Now, he’s almost surprised to see that Sephiroth starts out well. His legs look thin under the exercise tights, knobby at the knees and almost splayed outward, like a baby chocobo, but _fast_. In just a few minutes, his bangs are plastered to his face, and he reaches up every so often to push them back as he follows Cloud on the path.

Cloud slows up a little, not wanting to turn around the corner before Sephiroth can catch up. Jogging in place, he reaches his hand in his pocket and pulls out the headband he had bought. Well, not bought. _She_ had urged him to take it as he had walked through the market stalls the other day. And it had been _so_ easy. _Nobody’s looking_ , she—no, it—had said, as if whispering in his ear, and it was right. _Do it. You want to_. _He’ll like it. He’ll look at you and say_ you shouldn’t have _and he’ll like it all the same. You want that._

And he does. He wants it desperately. It’s just a scrap of black elastic, some knockoff from one of those fancy upper-plate sports brands, and it wouldn’t have cost more than 20 gil. But the voice had rewarded him for it, at least for a few brief moments. The muscles between his shoulder blades had uncoiled, the crease between his eyebrows had faded, and the dull ache between his eyes had vanished. There was no feeling of guilt at all, though objectively it was wrong to steal from someone who probably earned even less than he did.

He certainly doesn’t feel guilty now as he offers it to Sephiroth, who is panting as he finally catches up. Without sparing Cloud a glance, Sephiroth bends over, bracing his hands against his knees, catching his breath.

“You’re… trying… to kill me… aren’t you?”

“No way. If I was trying to kill you, would I have brought you a present?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Sephiroth’s head snaps up. “What? Why?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He can’t say _the voice in my head told me to steal it for you_ , but beyond that, if he had just bought it, he doesn’t know what he’d say. _Because I wanted to see you smile_ would sound like a line straight out of one of Sephiroth’s soap operas. _Because making you happy is the only thing I want anymore_ would somehow be even worse. Sappy _and_ pathetic. Just horrible.

“Because,” he manages, gesturing vaguely at Sephiroth’s face, “your hair.”

His long bangs are darkened with sweat, clinging to the lines of his face. Stray hairs poke out of the top of his head and his ponytail, and his lips are darkened, chapped by the wind. Straightening up, he steps forward to take the gift, and he is so close now that Cloud can _smell_ him, smell the sharp, distracting scent of something lovely and dirty in the middle of this dying, stale city. The Sephiroth’s fingers brush Cloud’s palm as he takes the headband and Cloud steps back before he can think on it too much. _Something is really wrong with me._

He starts jogging in place again because the images in his mind startle him. _Kissing his fingers, feeling the calluses against my lips, even his nails are pretty, even the way he bites his nails is charming, even if he hates that he does it, what if I kissed the inside of his wrist, tasted his sweat, what does he taste like, is it sweet, does he smile when I do it, does he talk, does he like it when I—_

It must be _her_. Tricking him again, putting things in his mind, diverting his attention from his real goals: being a better friend, a healthier person, a decent man. He shakes his head a little, and when he looks up, Sephiroth is wearing the headband, revealing the flushed planes of his handsome, _stupidly handsome_ face.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, but his lips twist as he fails to suppress his grin. “I guess I can keep going.”

So they do. Cloud is grateful when they resume, even if the pace is achingly slow for him, because he can focus on the rhythm of his strides, can shift his tempo to push Sephiroth a bit more, and it takes up enough of his energy that everything else seems quiet. He follows the route and he almost doesn’t believe it when they are already back at Stargazer Heights—when Sephiroth is still at his side, has kept up, hasn’t fallen behind again. He collapses at the top of the stairs, gasping, but he made it all the same, and Cloud feels a surge of pride: in just a few months, his new friend has gone from struggling to keep up on a short walk across Sector Seven to keeping pace with a SOLDIER First Class. _Not bad_.

He brings Sephiroth a bottle of water and pats him on the shoulder before crouching down next to him.

“You made it.”

“I… did…” comes the shaky reply. “I did.”

“So next time, the run is the warmup.”

“ _No way._ You’re… kidding.”

“Then weights.” He keeps his voice as serious and low as he can. “And sparring. You’ll feel like a million gil.”

“I feel… like my lungs… are dying.”

He can’t resist. “And we’re not done today, either.”

Sephiroth doesn’t respond, just presses the water bottle to his forehead and groans.

“Get up. We’re going to stretch.”

 _A few sit-ups never killed anyone either_ , he thinks, but the plaintive look in Sephiroth’s eyes holds him back.

—

The next morning, Sephiroth bangs on the wall separating their apartments, startling Cloud from his sleep. He’d been dreaming, and it was something nice, too, but it’s gone now, and it’s quickly replaced by fear. _What happened to him_!

“Cloud!” He can hear through the wall, and he barely manages to grab his sword before he runs out onto the catwalk, barefoot, and fumbles with his spare key as he tries to open the door.

“Hold on! I’ll be right there!” he says, finally managing to get the key in the lock. When he stumbles in, he brandishes his sword, but what he sees on the floor is not exactly what he expects. Sephiroth, loose hair swirling around him, is on the floor, tangled up in the blankets. He is curled up in a fetal position and when he sees Cloud, with great effort, he pushes himself up until he’s half-sitting, half-leaning against the bed frame.

“My muscles… I can’t move…”

Cloud nearly drops his sword. _Of course_. He pauses to set it against the wall before he squats next to Sephiroth. “I guess I pushed you a little too hard yesterday, huh?”

“But I felt fine. Right now… I feel like I got hit by a train. I’m going to die.” He burrows into the blanket a little more and grimaces

It’s almost sweet, the way Sephiroth leans into him, sighing softly. He suspects that if he stayed still, Sephiroth would just fall back asleep right there, and for a moment, he’s tempted. But Cloud takes one of Sephiroth’s hands, wraps another around his torso, and helps him get back onto the bed.

“You aren’t going to die, Seph,” he laughs, pulling the sheet up a little and smoothing it around Sephiroth’s frame. “Your body is just struggling to learn its limits. You’ve never worked out before, but your body can handle it. It’s the mako. You’ll be fine soon.”

“My limits… we blew right past them,” comes the response. “Wait… who is Seph?”

Suddenly, Cloud feels all too aware of the fact that he’s wearing pajamas, sitting next to Sephiroth, in Sephiroth’s bed, absently stroking the ends of Sephiroth’s hair that have ended up in his lap. There’s a lump in his throat. _Get it together, dumbass._

“Was that not okay? Sorry. It was just shorter.”

“No,” Sephiroth says, “I like it. Nobody’s ever given me a nickname before. ‘Specimen S’ doesn’t really count.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. Seph it is, then.”

_Specimen S. Specimen C. Specimen… Z? No, that’s not right. But why is that so familiar?_

But he doesn’t go there. This moment is too nice, too familiar, too fleeting to let thoughts of Shinra take over, even if Sephiroth does look a little confused, furrowing his brow as he struggles to keep his eyes open. They can have Midgar, they can even have _Gaia_ , he thinks desperately, but they can’t have _this_.

—

He holds off on finding Sephiroth a weapon for the sparring he had promised, but for a few weeks, it feels like they have all the time in the world. Winter has fully settled into Midgar, not as cold as Nibelheim, but still punishing in its own way. The reactors run hotter than ever, and Cloud swears the mako smell has worsened. The half-light of the slums fades even earlier in the afternoon than before, and the brightly colored Yule lights some of the neighbors put up on their little houses seem hazy in the mako steam that drifts in more often than not these days.

But Sephiroth is flourishing like one of Aerith’s winter flowers. He’s put on some muscle, thanks to Cloud’s training regimen, and his appetite has picked up steam. He isn’t as shy anymore, and he seeks out Biggs and Wedge when they're playing pinball or just chatting at the table. He approaches Tifa and offers her a taste of whatever he's been learning to cook, he helps Aerith arrange her bouquets at the table, offering his ideas and even helping her brainstorm the best times and locations for flower sales above the plate.

His reading pace has increased, too, and more than once, Cloud has arrived at the bar to find him deep in conversation with Barret about the nature of the Planet, the Lifestream, and the chemical composition of Shinra’s mako. They go at it for hours, and Sephiroth even fetches his notebooks to show Barret some of his research. It’s as though they speak a different language, and Cloud finds it difficult to follow, but he knows just how far Sephiroth has come when Barret finds Cloud one evening away from the group, rests one of his huge hands on Cloud’s shoulder, and murmurs, “He’s a good one. You did good.” 

The bar is especially cozy during this season, and Sephiroth’s coffee and Tifa’s creative cocktails warms the very marrow of his bones. The AVALANCHE group has grown on him too; he doesn’t often accompany them on their missions, but he has procured a lot of Jessie’s explosives, and when he does go, if he can convince himself to leave Sephiroth alone for an evening, he finds a strange joy in trashing Shinra’s robots and putting an end to the miserable lives of their pseudoscientific creations. They’re like a little family; Wedge’s cats have now decided to greet him with an icy indifference, which is significant progress from the hissing and spitting he’d encountered when he had first made it to Sector Seven. Even Aerith has become something like a friend, although seeing her cheerful, radiant smile pains him, reminding him only of the flower he’d crushed, the flower the voice had _made_ him crush.

_But I’m the one who did it._

She has been teaching Sephiroth how to knit—with varying degrees of success—and seeing Tifa so joyful and embarrassed when Aerith flirts with her feels right.

If it weren’t for the voices—well, _the_ voice, now that nearly everything else has diminished—he could almost live like this. It could be a _life_ , not someone else’s, but _his_.

It falls apart a little, then, when Tifa pulls him aside after one of these warm, gentle evenings at Seventh Heaven. Things have felt so nice, maybe even _too_ nice, so he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop. The voice hasn’t been messing too much with his body, either, just encouraging him in stupid things, like putting his hand on the hot stove—which he resists, even if it hurts—and killing more mako-infused monsters at a time than he means to. But it isn’t too bothersome. He’s come to accept this.

“Have you thought about going back to therapy?” comes the question. Tifa is rifling through the pantry for some herbs for hot toddies; Jessie has a cold, and the rest of the crew won’t say no to a warm cocktail on a cold night.

She doesn’t even look up, so he isn’t sure where to look. The ceiling seems interesting enough; he rolls his shoulders before he grits out his response. “Yes, I’ve thought about it.”

“Cloud.” Her fist tightens around the cinnamon sticks, but she still doesn’t look up. “Don’t do that. You know what I mean.”

“Do I? Things are fine.” _That’s a lie_. He’s not sure if it’s him or the voice, but that’s correct. It’s a lie. He doesn’t fit into anything here; no matter how much he likes his friends, no matter how much Sephiroth seems to shine these days, he is the nail that sticks out, the black sheep, the one broken bulb that ruins the whole strand of Yule lights. “I don’t really see the point.”

At last, she turns towards him, forcing him to look down; he expects her to cross her arms, to tell him off, to put her fists on her hips and stare him down. That’s the Tifa he knows. But her eyes shimmer with tears, and her arms hang limply by her side. “You might not, but I’m still worried. Sephiroth says you talk to yourself. A lot.”

_He said that? When?_

“Not more than normal,” he grumbles, but is that true? He’s been doing _well_. If the voice has something to say, he keeps it internal. Sephiroth has no idea. _He can’t_.

“He’s mentioned it a few times, Cloud.” She hangs her head before turning back to the open jars. She hovers over the cloves, picking them out one by one rather than scooping them out like she normally does; Cloud doesn’t leave, though he wants to ask Sephiroth what he’s seen, wants to fix it, wants to stop it. “And I know you haven’t been in two months. You lied about October.”

_I thought nobody noticed. Nobody notices these things._

“ _I_ notice. _Sephiroth_ notices.”

_Shit._

“If you don’t want to go, that’s your choice, but please don’t lie to us.” She stares at the clove in her hands, then drops it into the sachet she’s been preparing. “You think nobody cares, but we do.”

 _I can’t keep fooling her. Please_ , he begs, of no one in particular. But someone answers. _She_ floods his veins with sunshine, _she_ plasters a genuine smile on his face, _she_ forces him to sling his arm around Tifa’s shoulders and hug her just so. To comfort her, _about him_. He grits his teeth under the smile, but he isn’t in control anymore. This isn’t his lie anymore. Tifa’s breaths are ragged against him and he _hates_ this, _hates_ that even the idea of hugging his oldest friend wasn’t his. But can it really hurt? She needs to let it out, needs to let go, needs to confront him. She’s been carrying too much. Only when he releases Tifa and stands back, body artificially relaxed, can he even find the control to speak.

“I’ll think about it. _Really_ think about it.”

 _You don’t need it, my son. You only need_ me _._

Tifa seems calmer now as she busies herself with the kettle and dicing the lemons, and she lets out a sad, broken laugh as she wipes her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

“Thank you, Cloud.”

“And I won’t lie anymore.”

 _I will_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters! Final exams and assignments took up a lot more time than I thought, and then I spent a lot of time catching up on sleep and drinking champagne. For all those who celebrate holidays around this time of year, I hope you've had plenty of time to relax and savor some time off from school/work/etc. 💕 I had hoped to make some progress a little earlier since we are leading into a bit of winter holiday fun for Cloud and Sephiroth. (And more angst, naturally.) Part of the next chapter has already been written so hopefully it won't be too much longer.
> 
> What do you think? Jenova is definitely taking a deeper hold over Cloud, but... romance! We will probably have one or two more chapters of Cloud's POV before we switch over to Sephiroth. I'm excited to show you his perspective of everything that's going on and move their story forward! Your comments and thoughts and kudos are what motivate me to keep going. I truly appreciate you all. 😢
> 
> Update for any KH fans: I've beaten all of the Organization XIII data fights except Master Xehanort. What an asshole.


	11. Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Tifa bring some Nibel traditions to Midgar. There is a little bit of suggestion of sexy stuff in the early part, but I think the “teen and up” rating is still accurate. I am not sure yet if there will be smut in later chapters since I haven’t written it in ~10 years and don’t want to disappoint. 😅
> 
> CW: excessive alcohol consumption

The next morning, when Cloud wakes up, nothing hurts. Even his scratchy, secondhand sheets feel soft as silk against his skin, and the weight of his lie to Tifa seems impossibly far away. His dreams, as they so often are, were full of the smell of blood, the sound of snapping jaws, the feeling of flames licking at his body. Mercifully, it seems like it’s disappeared now, but he can never be so sure. He normally isn’t one to indulge like this, would usually snap upright to a sitting position, smack his alarm clock, and rub his eyes while mentally cataloguing the details of a dream, the things he needs to do that day, and the falsehoods he needs to maintain. But today, the alarm hasn’t gone off yet, and he lets himself burrow a little deeper into the blankets. It’s just Midgar. No fire, no guns, no death. He steadies his breath, and with a huff, he rolls over and feels his eyes drift shut. Why not have this? After all, Yule is in two days. He can take a break.

He can’t remember the last time he’s had a _real_ Yule celebration. They didn’t celebrate in SOLDIER, did they? It’s a northern, rural tradition, anyway—a remnant of the culture of his ancestors, still a reason for celebration when Nibelheim is at its coldest. The sun would start to set behind the mountains before he would even finish the day at school, before he could walk the lonely path to his little home. But in the darkness, there was so much wonder. As poor as they were, as tired as his mother was, she would always find a way to make it seem like their family was so much bigger, so much wealthier.

When the season would start, he could always tell by the smell in the kitchen, that familiar comfort of the spiced cookies with a name in the old language. His mother’s hands came alive in that kitchen when she baked during the Yule season, and she never once reached for a recipe card, as if she possessed some magical, ancient knowledge known only to the most accomplished home bakers of Nibel. They would somehow have more food than they could eat, which never happened at any other time of year, and she would always buy him something small, but deeply precious, as if she could read his mind: a book about the care and feeding of different types of chocobos despite the fact that there had never been in any in Nibelheim; a small model motorcycle kit that would take him hours to paint and assemble by hand; a recent Shinra SOLDIER magazine still in its plastic wrapping from the special newsstand, with its absurdly high price tag not quite blacked out by a dried-up marker.

And when he had finally made it to SOLDIER, nobody else seemed to celebrate, he thinks. His brow furrows with the strain, and the twinge of his headache returns. _Why can’t I remember? I must’ve written a card to M— Mother, right? I always did_.

He balls his fists up in the sheets, suddenly furious with himself. Every time, every _fucking_ time. Every good thought these days will drag him back to these gaps, these wounds in his psyche. There _has_ to have been something good. _How can so many years pass with nothing to show for it?_ _Nothing, not even—_

There it is. A little ray of light in the inky nothingness of his memories: nearly flat champagne, room temperature. He’d never had it as a child, but he’s sure he’s tried it. When was it, what year, what—

_“Come on, feel that Yule spirit, dude! Just a little, alright?”_

_He feels the bottle press up to his lips; his mouth is dry and his body is lifeless, but there’s a firm arm around his shoulders, hugging him tight. He takes a small sip and he isn’t sure if he likes it, but it feels warm in his throat and he is vaguely aware of the corners of his lips perking up into a smile as the bottle is pulled away._

_“’S good…”_

_“I knew it! Feels like home, huh?” A chuckle, a few playful pats on his back, a hand rubbing the nape of his neck, helping him lie back down, then fading away, falling asleep..._

For one strange, buzzing moment, the memory is so vivid that when he opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, he almost can’t believe he’s back in Midgar. Someone had celebrated with him, so he hadn’t been alone. That’s something. But it’s odd; there’s nothing else that follows. Just… the void of knowing he had something he lost. Maybe another SOLDIER, maybe not. But a loss all the same.

The caving emptiness in his chest is too much, so he tries to refocus his thoughts on the upcoming celebration. Tifa has planned some kind of party, and he’s on decoration duty. The bar is already festive enough, he thinks, but Tifa wants him to show everyone how a proper Yule tree from Nibel would look; he hadn’t had the strength to tell Tifa that he and his mother had never actually been able to afford a tree. They had always gotten by with a snapped off or fallen branch and lit some candles in the windows. That had been enough, but this time they’re going all out. He’s committed to doing it, at least for Marlene, who seems enraptured by the idea that someone might bring her present and transform the bar into some kind of northern fantasyland. The tree will have to be plastic, but Marlene’s enthusiasm is very real.

Decorating won’t be so bad, will it? Tifa might let him have a drink while he does it, and it might keep his mind busy. Sephiroth might even let him try something from the kitchen before it’s time to eat; he seems very eager for Cloud’s feedback despite Cloud’s repeated assurances that he is _not_ a good judge of fine dining and that if it weren’t for Sephiroth and Tifa, he’d be eating expired instant noodles at least twice a day. “That’s alright,” Sephiroth always says in that quiet way of his as he holds up the spoon to Cloud’s mouth, “I just want to hear what you think.”

It’ll be a bit of work, all right: lights, garlands, ornaments, paper snowflakes… mistletoe? He’d heard Jessie asking about it, had seen Tifa unpacking some, and even all alone in his bed, he wants to pull his blanket up over his head just thinking about it. The worst, most embarrassing of all Nibel’s holiday rituals. _Gaia, no_. The first time he’d witnessed it in action in the town square, Tifa had nearly knocked their overeager classmate unconscious. He had cheered for her then, not out of jealousy, but out of something like pride—that boy had always messed with Cloud, stealing his pencils, kicking him into the snow, flipping his lunch tray—and seeing Tifa reject him so thoroughly had been one of the highlights of his young life.

In Midgar, mistletoe seems to have become some kind of trendy thing. Above the plate, there’s even real mistletoe for sale, terribly overpriced but widely coveted, and Aerith and Jessie have been fervently discussing exactly where to place it for maximum embarrassment and fun.

 _Put it in the trash, please_ , he thinks, cheeks reddening just at the thought. He’s never had any kiss, whether at Yule or not, and Tifa and Aerith have never needed the excuse of some dangling plant to go at it. _Good for them, but…_

It’ll never happen for him. He’s not even sure what he’d do. If he accidentally bumped into any of the AVALANCHE group, he’d just grunt and move away. Easy peasy. But… wait. _Sephiroth?_ He’s completely clueless about all things Yule, and somehow, in these blurry months, he’s become Cloud’s closest friend. It could _never_ happen. Sephiroth will _never_ look at him the shameless way Aerith gazes at Tifa, as if she doesn’t care who’s watching. Sephiroth looks at him because they are friends and because friends make eye contact when they talk—no easy feat for Cloud, who puts in the effort to stay focused—but Tifa and Aerith have that hunger in his eyes.

 _Well, I can just… imagine. It’s pretend, so it doesn’t matter_.

He can see it in his mind’s eye, crystal clear: the blush across Sephiroth’s nose and cheeks, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows over his face in the candlelight. Whether or not it’s another mirage from that evil, sickening voice, he finds he doesn’t care. He has a few days left of fantasizing about this stupid party, so even if the illusion will inevitably be shattered, he wants to have this, just for now.

 _Sephiroth says his name as he leans over him; Cloud bites his lip, suddenly aware of the way he can still taste mulled wine on his breath, and the hands around his waist are strong and slender. Or maybe around his shoulders? Yes, start at the shoulders—that way, he can imagine Sephiroth’s fingers tracing the muscles of his back, sliding excruciatingly slowly down his shoulder blades before they settle at his waist._

_“Look where we’ve ended up,” he says, sounding like an idiot. “Oops.”_

_He hates himself._

_“I guess we can’t do anything about it,” laughs Sephiroth, but his look is deadly serious. Hungry—starved, even. “Too bad, huh? This must be fate.”_

_He’s never been kissed, so it’s hard to imagine, but he can see it before it happens: Sephiroth’s eyes are half-closed and a grin dances on his lips. Time has stopped around them, and he can’t hear anything but Sephiroth’s low, calm voice, can’t see anything but the silver curtain of hair framing his face, can’t feel anything under his hands but the top of Sephiroth’s shoulders, the fuzz of his bizarrely endearing Yule sweater under his palms, the expanse of Sephiroth’s newly developed muscles._

_“Cloud,” Sephiroth says gently, like a blessing, “Cloud, Cloud…”_

_He leans in, and Cloud remembers seeing it in the movies, in Sephiroth’s soap operas, the way they tilt their heads, hopefully in just the right way, so that their lips will—_

_“Cloud,” comes Sephiroth’s voice, his breath hot against Cloud’s neck, just inches away as he presses his nose to Cloud’s cheek, angling his face to the side, and Cloud can hear his heart pounding in his ears, “Cloud—”_

“Cloud! Are you in there?”

Wait, what? The gentle knock at the door feels as loud as a gunshot. Jolting upright, he realizes he’s still tangled in the blanket; embarrassingly, he’s been hugging himself, with one arm around his torso and another over his chest, and there’s a weird sort of pressure, something coiled deep in his belly, his pajama pants oddly tight, and—

_Shit. What the fuck. Calm down._

“What?” he yelps out. “Sephiroth?”

“Did your alarm not go off? We’re going to set up at Seventh Heaven soon, remember?”

_Set up? Set up what?_

“We’re having the party today! It’s Yule! Aren’t you excited?”

Cloud glances quickly at his lap, willing himself to _focus_. This is reality, and it’s a minor miracle that Sephiroth never opens the door; he always waits for Cloud to let him in. One, two, three… he breathes deeply for a few seconds and tries to command his body to listen to him.

“Um… sure?” _That sounds weird_. “I mean, yeah, I am. But just a second, hold on.”

In, then out. _Breathe, Cloud. Stop thinking weird thoughts about your friend._

When he’s feeling composed enough, he trudges over to the door and opens it, inviting Sephiroth in with a half-hearted sweep of his arm. “I just need a minute to… you know. Can’t believe it’s Yule already.”

_I thought it was in two days. Or three? What day was it that I talked to Tifa? What happened to me?_

He gestures at the rumpled bedsheets and then at his hair, which he’s sure looks frightful.

“Of course.” No snarky remark, no complaints; Sephiroth just starts making the bed and as he passes by, Cloud can tell that he’s already washed and blow-dried his hair. The heady smell of shampoo as Sephiroth moves through this tiny room is unmistakable and intoxicating. _You bought that for him_ , whispers the voice. He knows that and he absolutely does _not_ want to dwell on it. _YOU. youyouyouyouYOU—_

While Cloud fishes around in his dresser for some clean clothes and makes his way to the bathroom, Sephiroth sits on the now-made bed and starts flicking through the TV channels, but he keeps the volume low. From the corner of the bathroom mirror, he can see the Sephiroth is leaning to the side, watching him. When their eyes meet in the mirror, he immediately looks away and busies himself with dragging a comb through his unruly hair. If his fingers shake a little around the comb, he pretends not to notice. It can’t seep in that way, if he just keeps up his defenses. 

“Are you alright?”

There it is. The dreaded question. His voice isn’t pained like Tifa’s has been last night— _or the other night? What day was it? Was that yesterday?—_

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

 _Why do you think, dumbass_ , he thinks to himself, and the voice doesn’t jump in to add more commentary. He wipes the hair tonic from his hands onto a towel and turns on the tap, not waiting for the water to get warm before splashing it on his face. It’s bracingly cold, but he feels a little more present, a little more able to participate in whatever the hell kind of conversation this is.

Sephiroth glances at the TV for a moment before picking at a stray thread on the blanket. Cloud studies his own reflection, dripping in water, and he doesn’t see anything wrong. Sure, his hair is a little disheveled, but he just woke up. And it’s always a little messy. If it were neat, or slicked back, wouldn’t _that_ be cause for concern? His eyes look surprisingly clear, free of their habitual redness, and his skin has a healthy glow. The circles under his eyes aren’t nearly as dark as they so often are, and his limbs feel almost weightless—or, at least, not weighed down by something unseen. What’s the problem?

“I… I know Tifa talked to you. I’m sorry for going behind your back to talk to her.”

Shit. Does Sephiroth feel some kind of misplaced guilt? It had hardly occurred to Cloud to be frustrated; the mere idea that Sephiroth was looking out for him was a bit of comfort, even if he had found himself almost supernaturally compelled to spew lies in Tifa’s face and to even hug her, one of the first real embraces they had had in months.

“And now I’m trying to be more straightforward instead of hiding,” Sephiroth continues. “So I’m just asking you, one-on-one, how you’re doing. You seem tired.”

Cloud spins around and crosses his arms, but it feels weirdly defensive, so he drops them and they hang limply by his sides. He has _no clue_ how to act, what to expect. _Idiot, let him say his part, figure your hands out._ He shoves one hand in his pajama pants pocket, leans against the doorframe, and studies Sephiroth’s expression. Sephiroth looks a little wounded, a little nervous; he’s bent forward and looking at Cloud, but his fingers are still twisting on the stray thread. From what Cloud can see, Sephiroth has been chewing his fingernails again recently, and he never has the heart to snap Sephiroth out of his reverie, take his hands and settle them away from his mouth, move him back to his books or his knitting needles; he just watches, like some useless imitation of a friend, fascinated. It’s a little creepy, but... he notices. He’s trying. He can read Sephiroth so well, and he wishes he had the strength to run over to Sephiroth’s side, take one of those hands in each of his own, and just stay there, quiet and calm, until everything on the Planet fades to dust. 

_Don’t be awkward, Cloud. Ugh. Just say something._

“Don’t feel bad about it, Seph. That’s what friends do, right? Look out for each other. I get it.”

Sephiroth nods and even from here, Cloud can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“You know, I actually feel pretty great today.”

It doesn’t feel like a lie. His body feels good, and the unsettling gaps in his memory don’t bother him as much as they did earlier this morning. This is his life, or at least the part of it that he’s allowed to have these days, and things could be a _lot_ worse. His body feels lighter than air, and that dense breadth of nerves behind his eyes doesn’t scream at him like an ice pick has just been driven into his skull. _Much_ better than just a few weeks ago, right? The nightmares are just a permanent fixture, a part of living in this body. So what? _I’m doing just fine_.

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Sephiroth. His fingers pull away from the blanket and he smiles sheepishly at Cloud. “We have a lot of work to do at the bar, it seems.”

“Going to make a new recipe today? Can I try?” He points at Sephiroth with his toothbrush in the mirror before squirting some toothpaste on it and starting to brush.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

There’s that familiar sensation, the emptiness, the strange pressure on his chest. He isn’t nervous, not exactly, but the way Sephiroth’s emerald eyes are trained on him, he wonders if Sephiroth can perhaps see the wall through him, as if he’s seen it all, good and bad, everything under the surface. Or he’s just being mysterious as an insurance policy in case whatever new baked good he prepares turns out to be a failure—although his successes are more frequent than ever these days.

 _I can’t believe I lost two whole days. But… at least I got him a gift._ A pretty decent one, even if he’s being modest: a special box set of the first three _Malefactors_ books, with collectible photograph cards from the TV series. A few weeks ago, deeply confused by one of Sephiroth’s attempts to explain a plot point and solicit his opinion on it, he had pulled out his phone to search on Moogle for just what the hell a pink materia had to do with body swapping and possession, only to find an entire web forum about the differences in the original novels and the TV adaptation. Finally, he had given up and just asked Aerith, the apparent guru of all things soap opera and frequent Sephiroth TV debate participant, for some spoilers to help him keep up in conversation. Unprompted, she had told him that there were actually _ten_ books with an eleventh coming very soon, but that the full hardcover was out of print, and that perhaps a commemorative matching set of the first few would be at a bookstore above the plate.

He had just stared at her for a few seconds, baffled, until she patted him on the shoulder and stated dramatically, “I think you’ll find a good use for them if you buy them.”

 _Oh. A gift. For Sephiroth._ It had taken him a while to connect the dots, but the box is under the bed, wrapped in glittery gold paper, tied up in a bow. He was grateful that the salesclerk at the fancy bookstore had offered to wrap it, but he had been rendered speechless when she wiggled her eyebrows and asked if it was for a girlfriend—or boyfriend, perhaps? He had only managed a strangled “thank you” before escaping from the bookstore and vowing never to return ever again.

Fortunately, his days had not been filled with any more shopping; the rest of the group had agreed that in lieu of exchanging gifts together, they would all pool some money for the food, decorations, and drinks. But Cloud hadn’t been able to resist buying the books for Sephiroth, and although he is certain Sephiroth will finish reading them in less than a day, he finds himself eagerly looking forward to watching him read, seeing his tongue poke out the edge of his mouth in concentration.

But he’s just… standing there, mechanically brushing his teeth. _How much time has passed?_ He returns to his body, to the present, pulling himself out of his thoughts, and Sephiroth has turned back to the morning news, so he shuts the bathroom door, rinses out his mouth, and hastily gets dressed.

 _Get to it, SOLDIER_ , he thinks, steeling himself for the party. _It’ll be fun_.

—

_12 hours later…_

The Nibel fire spirits had not, in hindsight, been the best decision.

The early part of the day had passed innocently enough; Sephiroth had baked plate after plate of sugar cookies, preparing a thousand different colors of frosting and working with Marlene to decorate the little evergreen trees, chocobos of every color, stars, and stockings. Jessie had commanded the jukebox, and Tifa had been simmering mulled wine and Nibel stew on the stove for hours. Cloud had worked with Biggs and Wedge to put up the massive synthetic tree, which nearly grazed the ceiling, and they had spent a good part of the afternoon hanging ornament and garlands, then cutting painstakingly delicate paper snowflakes to string up around the bar. It was tedious, and Cloud felt overheated under his sweater as he wrestled with yet another strand of lights, but the sparkle in Tifa’s eyes when she came out of the kitchen was a reward in and of itself. She was happy, and she was the only one who really knew, like him, what Yule could be.

As for the party, once Marlene had gone to bed—after eating nearly a whole plate of cookies and falling asleep several times in Aerith’s lap—things had started to devolve. As far as Cloud had known, his tolerance for alcohol was higher than an unenhanced person’s, but Aerith somehow kept pace with him, and Jessie refilled his glass so often it was hard to tell just how much he had consumed. When they had switched from the mulled wine to straight spirits, the night had taken a turn. As for Sephiroth, he had tasted a bit of the mulled wine when Wedge had offered it to him, but Wedge had snatched the glass away when he watched Sephiroth’s brow furrow in apparent disgust.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it!” Wedge had yelped. “We won’t be offended.”

“Alcohol is… not for me,” he had managed in between desperate gulps of Marlene’s abandoned bottle of cola. Cloud had had to bite back his laughter, but he still kept stealing glances at the mistletoe hanging from the rafters across the bar.

_Get it together._

Now, swaying on his feet, with Aerith nearly dozing on Tifa’s shoulders, he wonders if his pride has gotten the better of him. He’s still awake, _take that_ , but an unenhanced city girl had given him a good run for his money, and he had enjoyed feeling himself unwind as he had continued drinking. His whole body feels pleasantly warm, but detached, as if he’s being pulled along by slack puppet-strings, not fully in charge of the way the room is swirling around him. _It_ does _look pretty, I did that!_

“You did,” Sephiroth says, and Cloud is suddenly aware of an arm steadying him, around his waist, _just like I imagined_.

“You did a very good job decorating, Cloud, but I think the party is over. Why don’t we go home?”

 _So quickly?_ It hasn’t been that long, right? But they’re somehow at the door, with Sephiroth leaning forward to open it with one hand; Cloud looks back for a moment to see Jessie slouched over a table and Biggs and Wedge attempting to get a few extra coins out of the pinball machine. He can faintly hear Aerith and Tifa’s giggles from the kitchen, and Barret has seemingly followed in his daughter’s footsteps and gone to bed at a more responsible time than the rest of them.

He doesn’t feel _that_ drunk, but maybe he had dived in too deep. The voice had shut the fuck up for the entire time, and while his mind continually wandered to the mistletoe, the bar feels so much like a place to belong. He doesn’t remember feeling that way at Shinra, and certainly not in Nibelheim with the other kids.

Sephiroth is opening the door to Cloud’s apartment— _how did we get back here so fast_ —and Cloud is vaguely aware of Sephiroth sitting him down and untying his boots, helping him sip some water, then pulling the covers back.

 _But I want to stay awake_.

“Aren’t you tired?” Sephiroth says, smoothing Cloud’s hair away from his face, then rubbing his back. “You had quite a bit to drink.”

“Not _that_ much,” he drawls, but he hiccups as he says it. Sephiroth is right there, sitting right next to him, so warm he can almost feel it, and before he is fully cognizant of what he’s done, he leans towards Sephiroth and presses his lips to Sephiroth’s cheek, the edge of his jaw, just one small kiss. And then he waits there, every muscle clenched, squeezing his eyes shut.

_No, no, no, why did I do that, no, no—_

Sephiroth pulls back, but he doesn’t go anywhere, at least not yet, and Cloud can cling to the fantasy for just another few seconds. The fingers on the tops of his forearms are so soft, and Sephiroth looks so _pretty_ , so _healthy_ now, that it almost doesn’t bother him that Sephiroth guides him to lie down without saying anything. It was a stupid idea, a total crossing of the line, but he’ll regret it tomorrow.

“Sorry, there’s no mistletoe, shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, staring at the floor. He feels a little ill, but he’s not sure if it’s the wine or the sheer stupidity of what he’s done, the sickening feeling of something that can’t be taken back.

“Cloud, look at me.” The fingers under his chin do not force him to look up, but he does it anyway, managing to maintain the eye contact despite wanting to hide under the bed.

_I didn’t give him his gift yet. It’s still there too._

“I’m not asking you anything at all—at least nothing like that. I’m only asking this: do you want me to stay? And sleep by your side? If a nightmare comes, then you won’t be alone. And if you feel sick, you can tell me.”

Cloud is afraid to answer because he knows they’re not nightmares anymore. They are something else. They must be. They are super high definition, every single color he’s ever seen and so many he can’t even name, the visions that only the voice can offer. They’re all real. And isn’t that nice? How is it a nightmare if it’s a vision of what is to come?

 _No._ _Get your head out of that shit, Strife. This beautiful guy is asking you,_ YOU _, for the privilege of sleeping next to you in case you have a nightmare, and you get all philosophical end of the world on it? Absolutely not._

“Cloud? Are you awake? What do you think?” The hand under his chin moves to massage the tight knot of muscle at the top of his shoulders, a sharp sensation that reminds him of what surreal scene is taking place.

“Mmhmm. Okay.” He has nearly fallen asleep; his hands are fisted in the sheets, and he feels himself drifting away. His breath already comes in steady little huffs, but his body comes alive when he opens his eyes and sleepily watches Sephiroth take off his own shoes and slide into the small bed with him. Sephiroth has somehow turned off the light, but Cloud can still make out his form, wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Pulling Cloud back to rest his head on his chest, Sephiroth begins to speak. “You don’t say very much, so I don’t know what’s happening to you, or even what’s happened to either of us. Existence is not a nice thing sometimes. But if we hold each other here, we’re anchors. And we’ll be right here together. Nobody is going to float away. Not you. Not me. It’s why I think I was meant to come here. I think. Whatever Gaia wanted me to do, it must be here.”

Cloud hears his voice as if it’s from far away, but he listens as attentively as he tries when he’s dreaming, as if he’s afraid to forget it. He savors the warm embrace around him as he rests on Sephiroth’s chest, the easy threading of their legs together as he’s half sprawled over Sephiroth. It isn’t as embarrassing as he had expected, although he shamefully wonders if they would be more comfortable out of their rumpled, dirty clothes. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break the spell more powerful than any materia could ever conjure. And he is scared to know what he even wants other than this, the loveliness of being together alone with someone who walks around in his life like a fucking angel from heaven and doesn’t think Cloud is just a bomb waiting to go off. He feels… _light_ in Sephiroth’s arms. As if the rest of the world is gone. It’s just this little room, these two people. Sephiroth sighs and runs a hand through Cloud’s shock of yellow hair before settling it firmly around Cloud’s shoulders. He’s afraid to move his hands away from the sheets and tuck his arms around Sephiroth too, but he’s comfortable, _so comfortable, I’m safe. She can’t have me here. This is mine._

 _Listen. In the spring_ , she says, a wretched thunderclap on a calm night. _We’ll go in the spring, when the snow melts._

“What’s in the spring?” Sephiroth murmurs as Cloud leans into him; Cloud can feel his voice rumbling through his chest as he presses his cheek into Sephiroth’s Yule sweater, and it pushes back the nausea.

His mouth moves of its own accord, almost muffled by the sweater as he croaks, “Nibelheim. We should visit Nibelheim.”

_We’ll go together._

“I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think?? We'll be switching to Sephiroth's point of view during the next chapter, although I think we will do some alternating between him and Cloud for a little while. I really want to write pure, unadulterated fluff but Jenova keeps invading it, so... here we are! Writing the Zack tidbit was a bit of a gut punch, so I apologize for that.
> 
> Un-beta'd as of January 1, but I plan to fix that tomorrow. I’m also not happy with the last scene and may end up rewriting parts of it. It was kind of a struggle, even though it’s a fair amount longer than my usual itty bitty chapters. I just wanted to post this before spending time with family tonight. I will also respond to my lovely commenters tomorrow so please don't think I've forgotten you. You all make this worth it. ;__; My other main fic idea has also been plaguing my notes app instead of this, so I've been less productive than I anticipated.
> 
> Happy new year to you all, and please continue to stay healthy and safe. I hope that 2021 is going to be a wonderful year for each and every one of you, better than last year and better than any year before.


	12. The Scientific Method

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth does some thinking.

He hadn’t expected this at all. A few months ago, Midgar had been a hazy, looming shadow in his vision, a glowing line on the horizon above the poisoned earth. Even then, when Cloud had first found him, he hadn’t been able to remember the sequence of events that had led him to Sector Seven. In fact, everything before that day is a jumbled mess in his mind. Now, when he reads, when he walks around the city, everything imprints on him like a photograph. The past, though—it only comes in kaleidoscopic, nauseating flashes. But Midgar and his new life here are too precious to be forgotten. Even something like burning his hand on the stove and turning to find Tifa already there with salve for his skin—he treasures it all.

But this— _this_ is more than he ever could have dreamed. Cloud is sleeping quietly in his arms, and although Sephiroth has been awake for almost an hour, he doesn’t dare move. Like this, all of the lines of worry that normally appear on Cloud’s face have faded. He doesn’t look healthy, but as Sephiroth had emerged from his own fugue, he had come to realize that Cloud was not some sort of knight in shining armor, ready to fight Sephiroth’s demons. Of course, he wouldn’t want that anyway—but what of Cloud’s demons?

No matter the lighting, it has seemed lately that Cloud’s skin is cloaked in some kind of strange pallor, almost sickly green, and when he saw Cloud looking in the mirror yesterday morning before the Yule party, Cloud had seemed pleased with what he had seen, but Sephiroth just couldn’t help himself. _Are you okay?_ Such a simple question, but Cloud had bristled, had gone back to muttering himself in the bathroom and palpating his face, combing his hands through his hair, smiling bizarrely. He had almost considered asking Cloud if they shouldn’t go to the party at all, if they should even see a doctor, but he had hated the wary looks that the AVALANCHE crew had given him during those first few weeks, and Sephiroth knows what it’s like to doubt reality. He just doesn’t know how to help someone who is lost in their own head.

Besides, Cloud is _strong_. Stronger than any person he’s ever met, except perhaps— _them, holding him down on the exam table, he doesn’t like the needles, he wants to go back to his room, stop or we’ll put you back in the tank, you little freak_ —no, Cloud really is the strongest. He might slouch over when he sits, might fidget, might seem a little thin, but beneath all that, Sephiroth has seen Cloud’s abilities, his prowess with dealing with mako-poisoned monsters around the area. He’s only observed from afar, but to see a human being move with that kind of speed had been intoxicating. Whatever plagues his mind does not, it appears, plague his body, and for all Sephiroth has learned about Shinra and SOLDIER, he thinks they may have produced their most perfect specimen in Cloud.

But he’s never liked being a specimen. Whatever happened to Cloud, whatever _is_ happening, he wants nothing more than to have it disappear, and it’s easy to forget it right now, with Cloud wrapped in his arms.

They are tangled in the sheets, almost a little too warm, and Sephiroth’s arm under Cloud’s body has gone almost completely numb. But there’s nothing he would change; from here, gazing down at Cloud, he can count every single freckle on his face, can study the fascinating way his hair sticks up at all angles, can memorize the soft, slow way he breathes in his sleep. He’s watched a lot of TV lately, and he’s learned a thing or two about romance, but if this is all he’ll ever get, if this is what love feels like, he thinks he could be happy for the rest of his life.

Cloud doesn’t question him when he eats cake for lunch—because he’s not sure he’s ever had cake before, and who wouldn’t want to enjoy it as a meal? When he struggled to understand the TV remote or the catalogue system at the library, Cloud had been so _patient_. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t snatched the TV remote and beaten him with it— _the clipboard always_ hurts _, even if they say it will heal fast_ —had just let him puzzle it out. For the first time in his life, he’s his own man, and for the first time, he doesn’t have to be alone.

It’s so lovely to be able to sit quietly with someone and just _be_. He never knew that was possible. He loves those moments in his little room, where Cloud is flipping through one of his motorcycle magazines or repairing some gadget for a neighbor, and Sephiroth is watching a show on Cloud’s PHS or practicing his knitting. Maybe Cloud will pass him a snack, or get up to make some jasmine tea—which Cloud never drinks, although he always makes two cups, as if he’s doing it for himself and not for Sephiroth—or just lean over him to see what he’s doing, press a hand to his shoulder, then return to his activity. They don’t need to talk, they can just… exist.

In his arms, Cloud shifts a little, letting out a small huff as he burrows closer to Sephiroth, tightening his arms around Sephiroth’s body. He thrills at the feeling, tries to memorize the shape of Cloud’s fingertips through his shirt, just like he had committed the fullness of Cloud’s lips on his cheek to memory. Maybe he’s forgotten good things in the past—though he seriously doubts it—but he doesn’t want to let this go. He’ll die before some Shinra employee in a white coat takes anything from him again, he thinks, instinctively tightening his embrace around Cloud.

Last night, they hadn’t had time to exchange gifts, but Cloud had actually seemed alright at the party. Sephiroth had sat back, savoring the intimacy of the whole thing; he had never been to a Yule party, and as far as he can tell, he’d only heard it mentioned a long time ago, had been punished for asking why someone— _white coat? Scowling face? Syringe in hand?_ —was wearing earrings with shiny red baubles. The image had come to him unbidden when he had watched Cloud decorate the tree; she had been wearing little ornaments as earrings, a nod to the holiday. But he had barely recall ever leaving that white-walled place, and that splash of color had been a sign that something else existed beyond the rough hospital gown, the restraints in his little room, the screams of the other experiments.

His brow furrows a little bit, and he looks back at Cloud to ground himself. _This_ is real. Cloud is real, Cloud is going to be _fine_ , Cloud is his closest friend. Maybe it’s a lie to tell Cloud he doesn’t remember things, he wonders. These days, more and more of the memories are coming back, stirred up by the Yule ornaments, or a familiar face in one of the Shinra books he’s been reading, or a description of mako experimentation in one of the medical books that seems too familiar to have been from another book. Too real, like the feeling of his hands pounding weakly against reinforced glass, his body hanging limply in the green fluid.

No, no, better to let that go now. He can hardly bear it, and filling his day with purposeful study and his own scientific experimentation—the correct ratio of flour, white and brown sugar in a chocolate chip cookie, or exactly how to fold in the egg whites to make the perfect macaron batter, for example—will keep him sane, he’s sure. He doesn’t want to be that sniveling mess he was when Cloud found him in the alley, half-dead and ready to give up. He’s burned with shame countless times even to recall it, but Midgar had not been kind before that day. The hours had blurred as he had trudged around the undercity, stealing whatever trash he could to feed himself, feeling too tired to be angry when people would shout at him— _mako junkie, disgusting, how can you live with yourself_. He still doesn’t know the answer to that.

But he’s safe now. Cloud is safe, even if Sephiroth wonders what truly plagues him; Cloud can leap two stories into the air, can tear metal apart with his bare hands, can destroy a clutch of monsters in less than a minute, but there’s something that won’t let him go. He talks to himself. A _lot_. And it’s been getting worse. At first, it had just been a tic—cocking his head to one side, as if listening to something, muttering a curse under his breath. But then, more recently, hushed conversations; Sephiroth can never make out the words, as Cloud seems to make an effort to conduct these negotiations alone, but his tone is far harsher than Sephiroth has ever heard from him before.

With others, he sometimes seems to blurt his thoughts out loud; last night, in his drunken stupor, he had even muttered that he hadn’t given Sephiroth his gift yet. Sephiroth is certain that he had turned red as a tomato hearing that, wondering why Cloud would even get him anything at all, hadn’t they agreed not to exchange presents with everyone? He would’ve chalked it all up to the alcohol, but it’s become more common lately; the disappearances, the sunken shadows beneath his eyes, the greenish glimmer in the whites of his eyes, the ashen hue of his skin, even as he pushes Sephiroth—and himself—harder than ever in their workouts. In fact, when he tells Sephiroth they’re done for the day and squeezes his shoulder, murmuring _good job_ so close he can feel Cloud’s breath on his ear, Cloud usually stays on the roof, or out on the path, and resumes another workout alone. Sephiroth has put on some muscle, but Cloud has just become more… defined. Sharper, more angular; stronger, faster, certainly, but bizarrely fragile, as if his body is bowing under some unseen pressure and fighting back as desperately as it can.

It seems almost beyond Sephiroth’s scientifically oriented mind; Cloud won’t go back to the therapist, and it isn’t Sephiroth’s job. He can’t puzzle it out for him, can’t carry the burden, unscramble the mess.

Aerith had told him as much. A few days ago, they had been sitting quietly in a corner of the bar, sipping hot cocoa and looking at a book about the language of flowers. He had received some type of education long ago, but this was wholly outside his realm of knowledge, and the visual trigger of flowers to such emotional concepts as _eternal love_ , _admiration,_ and _purity_ had not come naturally to him. But Aerith—if only he had known someone like her earlier in life. A relentless tease, but something like a sister, if what he had heard about families was true. That they would take care of you, and taunt you like no one else.

That day, she had been quizzing him, asking him his thoughts on a new bouquet she thought might sell well for around the Yule season, but he had been too distracted to respond. The day before, Cloud had gone for one of his “walks,” as he called them, though he always took his sword and materia and he wore his armor rather than civilian clothes, and he had not returned for dinner, or even before Sephiroth had gone to sleep.

“Hey, you,” Aerith had said. “What’s going on?”

Her hand had felt so small on top of his, reaching across the table, but it had conveyed something so immense. Aerith, to him, has always seemed like some kind of sorceress, preternaturally disposed to the secrets of the in-betweens of life, sensitive to something nobody can see. That one little hand, the cock of her head to one side as he slowly looked up from the book to meet her gaze—like a big sister, looking out for him. For some kind of heartbreak.

“He didn’t come back last night.”

A sharp inhale.

“One of his ‘walks.’ But… he always comes back so exhausted, like he’s gone for a fight. But he goes even when the monsters are cleared out around Sector Seven.”

Aerith had pursed her lips and wrapped Sephiroth’s hand in both of hers, like a tiny hug, warmer in the marrow of his bones than any hot cocoa.

“You know, Cloud sure has helped you a lot.”

A nod.

“And you feel like you have to help him too.”

“Of course.”

His stomach had twisted in knots in anticipation of what she would say; why else would he be here? What is so special about Sector Seven? What about all those other sectors? There are plenty of other people suffering under Shinra’s rule, he knows it all too well, isn’t it selfish, isn’t it silly to be so devoted to one person?

“He didn’t save you, though, Seph.” Her hands had gripped his a little tighter then, and she had smiled softly. “You escaped from wherever you were and found your way to a new city. Nobody did that but you. Give yourself some credit.”

“Right, but—”

“What is happening to Cloud is not for you to fix.” She had said it with a surprising amount of force, not angrily, but with a serene sort of confidence that can only coming from plain truth. “There’s something going on with the Planet, and Cloud is still caught up in it.”

“How—”

She had shaken her head, then withdrawn her hands and turned back to the book. “Just like with flowers, I suppose. I’m not very strong, and I’m just a girl who’s never left Midgar. And Tifa puts up with me even though I can barely boil an egg in the kitchen. But the Planet tells me things. It’s very loud sometimes, too. And it talks about Cloud.”

Sephiroth has been puzzling over it for days. The mystical stuff about the Planet and the Lifestream always seems so beyond his comprehension; unlike science, which can be verified, calculated, tested against a null hypothesis, this all feels so esoteric, so… made up. Like a fantasy story, like the delightfully absurd plot of _Malefactors of Midgar_. Pure fiction. A girl who can talk to the spirit of the Planet through flowers. The coziest bar in the slums run by the flower-girl’s superhero girlfriend, the kindest woman in Midgar. The strongest man on the Planet, tormented by some unseen force. And _him_ , the variable that doesn’t fit into this messy reality. Just a _failed experiment, utterly useless and without value to our work_ who can’t stop biting his nails.

He believes Aerith wholeheartedly, without any reservations. When she speaks, she always has a reason behind her words, even if he doesn’t always understand it. And if the Planet is talking about Cloud, _his_ Cloud, this precious, lovely thing sleeping in his arms, then there must be a reason. He suspects, however, that he isn’t going to find the answer in any of his books. Even the disturbing fantasies he has of finding the lab, his old “home,” and razing it to the ground—that wouldn’t solve a thing. It would be no more than a scratch in Shinra’s impenetrable armor. No—whatever has happened to Cloud, it’s Cloud’s fate. All he can do is look on, offer a helping hand when asked. He isn’t a doctor, and Aerith is right: nobody can fix Cloud but Cloud. (But damn if he doesn't wish he could.)

Cloud had slept for most of the day after his “walk,” and when he had sought out Sephiroth that evening, sheepishly carrying a box of pizza in his arms, he had no memory of doing anything other than walking around the slums and going to bed. Nearly whole day gone, like it had never happened, but the traces of blood under his fingernails had left a cold, sinking feeling in Sephiroth’s stomach. Cloud hadn’t lied, he knew—he just couldn’t remember. The divide of mind and body, Sephiroth’s earliest lesson, made real before him: as a child, he now recalls, he had willed himself to dissociate from the walls around him. The hands banging on the glass aren’t his anymore, the conscious vivisection is being done to someone else, he is _not there_. His mind would wander to the books they had permitted him to read, to the children’s laughter he imagined he could hear from his tiny window that only ever showed a sliver of sky and the tip of a tree, the cold mountain air that he had once felt when he had smashed the window in a rage, slamming his fist through it like it was tissue paper.

He supposes Cloud is doing the same. Whatever burden he carries, it’s so heavy his mind can’t bear it. Sephiroth would bear it, if only he could. But… he can’t.

By now, his thoughts are racing, and he can’t resist burying his nose in Cloud’s hair and inhaling the soft smell of strawberry shampoo, fire spirits, sweat. Cloud never seems to mind his little touches, what he worries must seem so desperate. In fact, he wonders, Cloud never seems to hug anyone else—maybe Aerith, or maybe Tifa, once?—but he seems perfectly content walking down the street with Sephiroth’s arm looped through his, as if it’s the most ordinary display of friendship.

This moment feels so fragile, so impossible. If it isn’t love that fills his chest to bursting, sets his heart racing, then he’s not sure love is even real. And even if the moment breaks, if he never spends another second of his life holding Cloud this close, it could be enough. Besides, he never got to give Cloud his Yule present. Tifa had explained that it was a Nibelheim tradition to exchange gifts, but that the party would be everyone’s gift—although _if you got something for Cloud, I don’t think he would mind_. Sure, they had agreed, but this is different. A thank-you to Cloud for his friendship, for his care. Not _really_ a Yule present.

He’s quite proud of it, the blue scarf he’s knitted, a few shades darker than Cloud’s eyes; the stitching is more even than he’d thought, and it’s much bigger than any of the half-hearted potholders and mystery squares he’s done as practice. He had unraveled the rows countless times, trying to make it perfect, but even if it isn’t perfect, even if Cloud just accepts it with an embarrassed _thank you_ , seeing Cloud wear it would be better than any gift he’s ever received. And he hasn’t gotten many in his life; almost all of them are from Cloud, silk ribbons and fancy tea and rare books, the kinds of things he never knew even existed. He still can’t afford anything fancy—Tifa pays well, but monster hunting is much more lucrative, it seems—but he can’t wait to return the favor.

In fact, he finds he’s excited for Cloud to wake up, even if it’s probably better for him to sleep through the hangover. The scarf is just next door, folded neatly wrapped up in sparkly gold paper, waiting for its new owner. If he cranes his neck just so, he can see the clock on the microwave—10:32—and although it’s far past his usual wakeup time, he nuzzles his cheek against the top of Cloud’s hair and allows himself to close his eyes once more and wonder what Nibelheim is like. Cloud had said it last night before falling asleep, that they would go to Nibelheim in the spring, when the snow melts. _Together_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally... Sephiroth's perspective! (Although it's a little shorter than I had hoped.) There's a lot I didn't get to in this, and I've had a very hard time putting my ideas into words lately, but there will be another Sephiroth chapter soon. I promise I will get back to comments and will more thoroughly edit this chapter tomorrow, but my mental health hasn't been great during this last week, so I just wanted to get something posted and try to keep to a schedule. 
> 
> I deeply appreciate every single comment, kudos, and view that I see appear on my author page, and it means so much to me that people are reading my interpretation of these characters and enjoying it. Getting those notifications is the best kind of serotonin rush. ;___; Thank you! <3 
> 
> I also think I may be starting another Sefikura fic in a different an AU very soon! Sometimes it helps me to alternate between projects and find some inspiration in the other. They will be quite different. I’m still deciding between two concepts:
> 
> 1\. a shorter series where Sephiroth is Cloud’s guardian angel in a world where guardians do not become involved in their charge’s life. But Sephiroth (along with Genesis and Angeal) doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore and struggles with his role in a messed up system that assigns guardians to those marked for death. Eventual happy ending. I haven’t fleshed out the lore a lot quite yet.
> 
> 2\. After he is killed in Advent Children, Sephiroth goes back to the Lifestream and gets a solid scolding and a second chance at something he might have wanted, long ago. He wakes up in Cloud’s bed (their bed!) married to Cloud in an alternate timeline, but he is still in the throes of his delusion and struggles to understand how things could have ended up this way. Cloud understands Sephiroth’s tethers to his past life and they work through it together. Probably a shorter series with some angst but then a lot of domestic fluff and Sephiroth generally being grumpy yet pampered and loved, and with both of them surrounded by the usual friends/found family (FFVII party members, including Aerith, the kids, Turks silliness...)
> 
> Take care, everyone, and please stay healthy!


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